Great Expectations
by tukct81
Summary: Post-SE breakup: Damon's ignorance of his role in Stefan and Elena's breakup will lead to a long awaited revelation, but can Elena convince Damon that her feelings are real, without tearing the brothers apart?
1. Chapter 1

**So I absolutely told myself that I would take a well-deserved break after finishing Neverending Progress, but as you can see, that lasted all of a week and a half. I was just too inspired by 4x06 and the promo for 4x07. Keep in mind, this story does not use any spoilers other than the ones from officially released promos by the CW. I have seen the web clip with Damon and Stefan, but it didn't fit what I wanted the scene to be, and I'm sure my story will take a drastically different turn than the show. **

**I need to thank my fantastic sounding board for this story, Cher Sue, who helped me with both the title and the summary. Not to mention listening to me crazy rant about this story. So if you haven't read her stuff, I HIGHLY recommend it, and not just because I'm her beta for her current story **_**A Woman's Worth**_**. **

**So anyways, I hope you all enjoy, and feel free to leave me a comment below with the good, the bad, the ugly, or even a quick prayer for DE's future happiness. You know whatever works. **

Blinding sunlight, chirping birds, and an angsty teenage brother racing around the downstairs like he is actively trying to scuff up the hardwood, yep, all signs point towards a brand new day in the purgatory known as Mystic Falls. All we're missing is a nightmarish nun threatening to swat our knuckles with a ruler. Now I know what you're thinking, so before you write me off as a theatrical drama queen overly prone to hyperbole, take a single step in my shoes, and I guarantee you'll be tearing apart my liquor cabinet practically begging for one sweet drop of liquid release.

The troubles plaguing this small Virginia town are numerous and quite often deadly to its oblivious inhabitants. First there's the never-ending stream of supernatural dumb asses that instinctively pop up right when we gain a moment of temporary peace. I'm sure if any insurance company ever took the time to study this town's statistics for unexplainable 'accidents,' they'd immediately bring out a big red stamp and mark 'uninsurable' across the applications for any residents within ten miles of Mystic Falls. This place is practically a homey little death trap. It's a miracle we find time to pay our bills or clean our houses, in between the funerals and weekly celebrations for bridge building, fundraising, or whatever excuse available to drink up and toast our remarkable achievement of not dying this week.

But the real dangers in this town are the relationships. I can't tell you how much drama and mayhem has been caused all because of someone's damn feelings. Most places have to deal with the teeny bopper drama of first loves and inevitable first heartbreaks, but Mystic Falls has an added ingredient that makes this place freaking unbearable. For whatever reason, this sliver of sparsely populated land seems cursed with holding the world record for highest number of love triangles per capita. I might not have the data to back up my wild claims, but I'd be willing to stake my life on their validity. I swear it's an epidemic. If you're not involved in a love triangle in this town, it likely means you're under the age of 12 or dead.

Typically I'd consider myself above such juvenile arrangements. The constant back and forth and uncertainty tied to such relationships is a headache I neither need nor desire in my life. But sadly for me, I have the tragic misfortune of sharing identical taste in women with my younger brother, Stefan.

I don't know what cosmic force is to blame, but without fail, nearly every woman who's ever caught the eye of one Salvatore inescapably shares _something,_ even if only a passing admiration or interest in the other. After our first disastrous foray into sharing romantic partners, you would think we'd have learned our lesson, but I find Elena Gilbert capable of bringing even the strongest of men pitifully to their knees with one meaningful gaze.

Truthfully, I should've escaped this fucked up mess when I had the chance. My gentlemen's agreement with Stefan gave me the perfect excuse to pack my things and book a one way ticket to Vegas. But the lady doctor was right, if I didn't have Stefan and Elena to protect/love/hate, what else was there to live for? My stellar personality wasn't conducive to making friends. The one and only person willing to put up with my crap long enough to earn such a distinction had to go crazy and try to kill me. All of which I could've forgiven, if he hadn't followed up his sudden channeling of Buffy the Vampire Slayer with a tragic death scene. With Ric gone, it really felt like there was no one else. Even my own flesh and blood spends more time yelling at me than bonding with me. And the woman I love belongs to someone else. So to summarize, I'm stuck in this town, with this girl, and consumed with more pain than I'll ever admit.

And my day isn't likely to improve if I have to once again remind my careless brother of the importance of proper house maintenance, since we are likely stuck with it for the next couple hundred years. But as per usual, Stefan's disregard for the lasting strength of our carpets will probably mean another shopping spree for Persian rugs, to say nothing of more floor cleaner. I suppose it would be easier to hire/compel a maid to do the mundane tasks like dusting and sweeping, but honestly I don't trust anyone else with the boardinghouse's upkeep, so I speed downstairs to survey the damage of Stefan's latest morning sprint.

Slung over his shoulder is a beaten up duffel bag, filled to the brim with clothes, and what I assume are a year's supply of hair products. I snort in derision at whatever cockamamie plan little brother's cooked up now, no doubt one concocted at Klaus' bidding. "Don't tell me, you and Klaus finally decided to give up the charade and admit to your secret love for one another," I mock, good naturedly. What's a playful joke between brothers?

Stefan glares back at me, far more murderous than is typical for one of my teasing quips. The next phrase out of his mouth is spoken with little ceremony and far too little warning. "Elena and I broke up," Stefan announces, to my stunned silence. The epic love of the century couldn't last five minutes after the fangs grew in. How fucking ironic is that?

Now I feel I should earn some brownie points for not gloating, smiling, or even reacting at all. Surprisingly, I almost feel . . . disappointed. While I should be rejoicing in the streets, Stefan's words leave a bitter taste in my mouth. I see the same pain reflected in Stefan's eyes as I once glimpsed in my own, too many times to count, and whatever residual big brother instincts I still possess after all these years, come flaring back.

Starring at my brother's packed bag, I know that I'm the last person to fault Stefan for wanting to make a break for the nearest exit. I'd come closer than anyone knows to making the same choice, and I do wish for his sake that it were that simple. But soon enough he'll discover what I had, that when you can't find any joy in your own life, all you have left is living vicariously through the happiness of others. In some ways, giving Stefan and Elena the storybook ending that they deserved gave my life a sense of purpose, a sense of meaning somehow, but I couldn't even do that right. Despite my best efforts the other day to repair the rift between them, Stefan still ended up hurt in the end, and the worst part is, I don't even know why.

Seriously, people have to tell me these things. How can I fix their problems if I don't even know what the damn problem is? Stupid children! I scroll through my list of contacts, and am about to play couple's counselor over the phone to these two idiots, when the sound of Stefan's voice gives me pause. "Don't," he orders forcefully. "Whatever idea you've got brewing, just don't. You can't fix this. It's the one thing brother, _you_ can't fix."

I drop my arm down after hearing the defeatist tone coming out of Stefan's mouth. He really has given up, on her, on their future, on everything. Great, now I'm on cheer up duty as well, as if I didn't have a busy enough day as it was uncovering Professor Shane's dirty dealings. I play off Stefan's attitude like it's nothing and move on, in hopes that he'll feel something other than the metaphorical knife in his chest.

"I've lived through such maudlin times before Stef, no need to blow this out of proportion," I assure my extra broody brother. "Let me tell you how this works, you two stay apart for a few weeks, convince yourselves that the world is ending, then at the first sign of trouble, she'll run right back into your arms. Trust me I've seen it all before." I swear it's like he's new here or something. Haven't we gone through this routine ad nauseum? Surely he knows his lines by now. The temperature seems to rise ten degrees in Stefan's face alone. It looks beet red in seconds.

"Will you just STOP!" Stefan screeches in a fury. "Stop talking, stop trying to make this all okay, and most of all stop acting like this isn't the best day of your life!" My brother finishes his little hissy fit with flair and appears ready to sock me across the jaw if I utter another word. Being the daredevil that I am, I push my luck even further.

"I'll excuse your little freak out, because I know you can kind of be a dick when Elena's not around, and I'll offer even you the pleasure of _my _company. Free of charge, of course, since I do believe in family discounts." I smirk smoothly at my brother as he weighs his options. I assume 'to hit me or not to hit me' that is the question.

Eventually he just settles on sulking away like a petulant teenager, which I guess technically he is, and I roll my eyes at the fact that it's somehow my responsibility to stop him. "All this trouble looking for a cure and you're just giving up?" I ask, grabbing ahold of Stefan's arm.

He wrenches it free and stares daggers through his pupils. "What's the point? She's not mine anymore, and from the looks of it she never will be again. Her transition saw to that." He hangs in head in well-deserved shame as he relives his choice to save the football hero before his one true love. I might hate still hate him a bit myself for letting her drown, but I always adopted the 'no one picks on my brother but me philosophy,' even if it meant protecting him from himself.

"A transition that can be undone," I remind him optimistically, since apparently he woke up on the grumpy side of the bed this morning. Something happens in that moment, a shift in the air, and a change in attitude. Stefan's eyes light up again at the word undone. He almost cracks a smile, a truly momentous occasion for my baby bro. Eventually he lets me in on what's buzzing around in that bipolar head of his.

"She can be fixed," Stefan states with renewed life in his voice and a pronounced bounce in his step. I grimace a little at his wording, but choose not to take issue with it.

"Well I don't think the word 'fixed' is very politically correct, but if you're worried about Elena's _changes_," I state carefully, "A sprinkle of humanity should have her back to her old self in no time." My encouragement is mostly for Stefan's benefit, since I never quite shared his desire to change her. Whether Elena was a human or a vampire, she was still _her_; some might argue she was more herself than ever_._ But if warm skin and a living heart is what Stefan required to ride this fairy tale to its conclusion, then so be it. Elena wanted the cure, so did Stefan. Democracy had spoken, and I could tow the party line.

Stefan's demeanor shifted dramatically with his new sense of hope, and his renewed focus made him moderately useful once more. "I'll check in with Jeremy, see if he's up for a little vampire hunting road trip," Stefan informs me cheerfully. His giddiness is almost creepy compared to the contrast from just a few minutes ago, but I'm too thrilled to lose the pesky weight off Stefan's shoulders to question it.

I do however grab on one more time as a thought occurs to me. "Are we sure including Jeremy in this plan is the right move? I don't know about you, but I'd rather not wake up one day to find baby Gilbert putting vervain in my morning bourbon and toting around a stake with my name on it." My skepticism is met with Stefan's confusion at the unexpected concern for Elena's brother. While normally, my enjoyment of young Gilbert's particular brand of goofy loner wouldn't earn him a reprieve, Elena had recently tackled me, and made abundantly clear that she needed Jeremy to hold her together. A concern my brother apparently did not share.

"We need a hunter. Jeremy is one, end of discussion," Stefan proclaims, with his bossy pants newly dry cleaned and stronger than ever. While I'm sure that this is in fact _not_ the last we'd hear on the subject, I opt to let it go for the time being, so as not to test Stefan's fragile good mood. He stalks off to plan phase two of our quest for this elusive cure, and I come up with strategies to thwart whatever terrible ideas he comes up with on his first try.

In the middle of my own, and might I add far superior, scheming, the sound of Elena's personal ring tone registers in the silence, and I move quickly to answer, expecting to find a sobbing mess on the other end of the line. My expectations are turned entirely on their head when Elena's chipper voice greets me like it was any other day. In fact Elena sounds _happier _than she does on most days. Last time I remember her being this cheerful was before the accident, before Stefan came home as the ripper. There wasn't much joy to be found after that. It must be the denial I convince myself. When are those two going to learn, denial is an unhealthy coping mechanism, not an acceptable life choice!

Despite my frustration, I still manage to listen intently to Elena's nervous stammering. "So how have you been?" Elena asks, in what has to be the lamest opening to a phone conversation ever. I know she's fishing for something, and judging by her chipper mood, it isn't a shoulder to cry on.

"What do you need, Elena?" I ask, in my best sensitive voice, not wanting the dam to break while we're on the phone.

"A . . . date," she answers finally, leaving me shell shocked and nearly dropping the phone. Then after a few seconds without words, she gets all stammery again and starts talking faster than most humans could listen. "StefanandIbrokeupandIreallyn eedanescortforMissMysticFall s,andIthoughtyoumightwanttotak eme," she tirelessly utters her entire request in one lengthy breath. By the end, I swear I hear her panting.

I take a moment to consider what Elena's asking, and I make the bone headed move of addressing the elephant in the room. "Elena," I breathe her name out in an exhausted sigh. "What would Stefan say about me taking you to this dance?"

A brief pause hangs in the air for just a moment. "What if I told you I didn't care?" Her question takes me by surprise, by its sheer absurdity alone. Elena almost sounds frightened, as if the very possibility that there could be a universe in existence where she doesn't constantly obsess over what Stefan would approve of is unfathomable. It's too good to be true. I know it is. We've been down this road too many times. I'm obviously reading far too much into this, and once I see her, she'll just say that she was pissed off at my brother for dumping her and that's why she suddenly could give a flying fuck what he thought. But bad idea or not, I wasn't going to leave her hanging, and I certainly couldn't let Matt Donovan be her date, assuming that was her go to second backup. He would look terrible in a suit, like a fish out of water, and the fish might even be better suited for a black tie affair.

"I do look very sexy in a suit," I flirt shamelessly; knowing that it won't do anything more than put an extra bit of blush in her cheeks. "Also you'll need someone to carry you out of the party when your trial period of denial wears off and you break down in tears," I predict confidently.

She laughs at my summation of her emotional state. I see we're stuck with more denial for the foreseeable future. "I'm really okay," she promises, with a true sincerity that makes me question myself. "But if I do fall, I'd like you there to catch me," Elena states with unashamed affection that I'm unaccustomed to. I clear my throat awkwardly in an attempt to change the subject from the emotional implications of what she just said, and probably didn't truly mean.

"I'll pick you up at 7," I choke out nervously. "Wear something pretty," I add, in an attempt to salvage my smart ass reputation. Once off the phone, I look down at my hand, and try to ignore the unexplainable shaking. I'm not some teenage girl being asked to the prom by the football player. I have some pride you know . . . somewhere. Maybe I left it in my other pants. Regardless, I can't make a big deal out of this. It's just a friendly night of dancing and formal escort duties. I can handle this, hopefully without coming off as a spastic teenager. I practically invented what it meant to be cool.

My resolve to maintain my composure lasts all the way up to the Gilbert front door, as I'm dressed impeccably well, strictly for the sake of posterity. If we do all turn human one day, Elena will want to look back at these pictures and think damn we were hot. I'm only helping her advance that goal, and am by no means dressing up for any other reasons. My delusions last even up to the knock on her door, a bizarre gesture for someone so used to barging right in. I convince myself that this will be simple, until she opens the door looking more stunning than I've ever seen her. Her dress is a tight fitting black and white contrast, accentuated with dark lace that hits just below the knees. The simple style of her loosely tied up brown locks, only emphasizes her elegance. For hours, I persuaded myself that this wasn't a big deal, but the moment I saw her, I just went ahh.

**As Always Please Read and Review**


	2. Chapter 2

**Sorry that this took much longer than expected, but this chapter was much longer than expected. I blame this entirely on the people who suggested I up my rating to M, because that scene took forever, so I hope you all enjoy it. Although it probably made the story better, so I forgive you, because I'm benevolent like that. Keep in mind that this is my first time writing smut, so I'm sorry if it's terrible. It's currently 3 a.m. where I am, so I also apologize for any mistakes I might've made. My sleep addled brain is all mushy.**

**Also I wanted to thank all my wonderful readers and reviewers who made my day with their kind words. And a thank you to Cher Sue for being my sounding board and encouraging me through the end of this chapter when I wanted to give up. So anyways, I hope you all enjoy, and please leave me a comment below telling me what you thought.**

Blue eyes and hitched breaths greet me at the door as the typically suave, self-confident vampire shows unmistakable signs of nervousness. Damon is fidgeting, staring, and if my super hearing is working properly, he stopped breathing about thirty seconds ago. A casual observer might even mistake him for a mere mortal on a normal, anxiety filled first date. If Damon's nerves are this shot just escorting me to the dance, I can't imagine his reaction when I tell him this date is real, and not another in a long list of favors I've called in over the past year. But tonight is about evening the score, making it all up to him. After all the disappointments and pain he's suffered in the name of loving me, I owe it to him to make this night one he'll never forget.

Now in a perfect world, my certainty would act as calming influence. After all, I am in love with Damon Salvatore, a man who would gladly set himself ablaze if I asked him to, probably without thinking to inquire as to why. So I can't understand why I'm freaking out. The reality of what tonight truly means hits me hard, and at the most inopportune time. I don't have to hold myself back any longer. There's nothing to stop me from kissing him or touching him any damn time I want, and that's going to make for one distracting evening.

My lustful musings serve to divert my attention from the fact that I've been staring at Damon's lips for far longer than is considered socially appropriate. "Are you alright, Elena?" Damon finally remarks. "You seem distracted." His face transforms into one of concern at my awkwardness, having no idea that he's the cause. My head snaps back up as I remind myself that it's not polite to stare, and most people consider it cause for alarm.

I attempt to salvage some of my dignity by making polite chit chat, hoping to distract Damon from his question altogether. "You look," I struggle to find the words. Heavenly, delicious, and like something I could take a bite out of all sound oddly inappropriate. "Pretty," I finally decide on, right before wanting to smack myself in the face. Once the word leaves my mouth, I remember how much I suck at polite chit chat. Whatever anxiety Damon felt before, melts away when he sees me make an idiot out of myself. He can barely stop laughing long enough to muster a reply, and when he doesn't, I lightheartedly whack him across the chest with my purse.

"I've been called a lot of things in my day," he admits, far too full of himself than is healthy. "While I might prefer more gender specific adjectives to describe my good looks, from you, I'll take pretty." His sexy smirk makes me one part pissed off and one part turned on. I'm not sure whether I can blame that on my heightened emotions, or just on Damon being Damon, but I toss him a dramatic eye roll as we settle back into a comfortable pattern. I accept his arm gratefully as he leads me toward the car, and I try my damnedest to limit the staring to a respectable three second rule.

When we pull up in the Lockwood's driveway, I notice the reigning Miss Mystic shooting me a pissed off and disgusted glare that makes me feel equally ashamed and incensed at her self-righteous judgment. Damon tries to hide his discomfort at Caroline's disapproval. While he's never one to shy away from judgy stares, he must've noticed me stiffen in the seat next to him. Someone condemning his actions is something he begrudgingly accepts, but he never takes too kindly to me receiving the same treatment.

"I hate it," I confess in my riled up state. As Damon's eyes shift over, giving me his full attention, I unload on him. "I hate everyone trying to mold me into the person that they wish for me to be. I'm not half the 'good girl' they imagine, and that is a very high pedestal from which to fall." Pity flashes in his beautiful blue eyes as we share in a moment of silent understanding. But in usual Damon fashion, he doesn't resort to pedestrian clichés to comfort me. Instead a devious grin appears on his face, and my eyes light up at the prospect of whatever he's planning.

"If you really want to declare your independence from other's expectations, you need to be bold," Damon advises ominously. I spare a glance over at Caroline, who is clearly still watching us, acting as some sort of unwelcome chaperone.

"What'd you have in mind?" I ask, slightly worried how close to the edge he's going to take me in order to shake up my image.

He leans in, dangerously close to touching my left ear with his lips, and I shiver at the proximity. "Just follow my lead," Damon requests, as I nod fearfully at what he has in store for me next. Once Caroline notices our sudden closeness, she appears to struggle between breaking up our little moment, and eavesdropping. With a fiery glare, she chooses to stay rooted in her spot as she hangs on Damon's every word, and boy were those some dirty words. "I do hope you've worn your best underwear today, Elena, because as someone who's personally inspected some of your naughtier undergarments, I think you're holding out on me."

His first raunchy comment does more than inflame Caroline's delicate sensibilities. It ignites the blood beneath my skin to warm up as the thought of showing Damon my underwear pops up in my head, especially since I wore the red ones he has such a fondness for. My breathless state is then further tested when he takes his teasing of Caroline a step further as Damon starts describing his favorite sexual positions, you know for fun. In between my heaving breaths and my personal reminders that having sex in public is both frowned up and a punishable offense in the state of Virginia, I manage to ask a question that was unadvisable at best.

"Are some of those even possible?" I question as my ignorance looks like naïve innocence compared to sexipedia Damon Salvatore.

He flashes a wicked grin as he tickles my ear and whispers, "Wouldn't you like to know?"

His last comment acts as the last straw and my best friend storms off in a very huffy mood at our scandalous, private conversation. Damon's face is priceless as he revels in Caroline's traumatized demeanor at his diabolical plan. He's completely oblivious to the fact that I still haven't recovered from his little stunt. I think I'll need about an hour and a cold shower. Damon on the other hand appears to be having a blast. Apparently making Caroline's ears release cartoon smoke is better entertainment than pretending to be interested in whatever pompous founding family member is talking Damon's ear off.

"I must give credit where credit is due, Elena," he proclaims fondly. "You are a world class actress. Even I thought you were about to jump my bones for a second there."

I do an internal face palm at Damon's cluelessness. If I had really convinced this man that I _didn't_ want to have sex with him, than I should've been nominated for an Oscar by now. But deciding this is neither the time nor place to have this discussion, I opt for a quick exit to inspect the wreckage of Caroline's brain, that I'm sure has exploded all over her carefully placed decorations. "I need to go after her," I explain apologetically. "You may not know this, but Caroline in event planning mode can be scary, Caroline planning events while she's pissed, _scarier._ I'd hate for some unsuspecting volunteer to bear the brunt of her wrath."

Damon doesn't flinch before graciously waving me off to go deal with friend. "By all means, you go handle the girl drama, and I'll go grab the booze. Something tells me this is a double alcohol kind of evening. I'll meet you in ten." I quickly nod in agreement, eagerly anticipating a moment alone with him.

As I turn back, I grin like a happy idiot and state sincerely, "Thank you." Damon eyes me suspiciously at the odd display of emotion, but he quickly shrugs it off.

"What for?" Damon asks, puzzled at the sudden gratitude. "Pissing off Blondie, because I'm available anytime if you require my services in infuriating anymore of your friends. I've got plenty of material if you want to raise Judgy's blood pressure." I giggle freely at his joke before replacing laughter with a serious calmness and peace.

"No," I correct him gently, feeling more love in my heart than I thought possible. "I wanted to thank you for never asking me to be anyone else." Damon's defenses melt like a popsicle, even more so when I kiss him on the cheek before rushing off to find my forgotten friend. I hate to leave him hanging like that, for what must be the hundredth time, but it's all about timing and after so many near misses, I'm determined to get it right.

After a bit of a search, I find Caroline fiddling with an already immaculate floral arrangement, and I approach her with the caution of a trained hunter. I already know this fight can't go well, especially if I keep giggling like a toddler every three seconds. Despite all that, I buck up, and brace myself for World War III.

"Had time in between quickies I see," Caroline bites out cattily. I resolve not to rise to her obvious baiting of me, since I wouldn't want to give her the satisfaction. So instead I strive for a conciliatory note, seeing as how I was sort of poking the lion allowing Damon to torture Caroline that way. Not that she didn't have it coming for eavesdropping, but I don't want to upset my best friend more than she already is.

"I know this can't be easy for you, Caroline," I recognize sympathetically. "Stefan's your friend, and it's okay to feel bad that he's in pain, but I can't live my life to make him happy at the expense of myself," I reason with her. After trying so hard to make her understand, to see my side of things, she still glares at me with contempt that only serves to make me feel small.

"Why him?" Caroline questions emotionally, partly out of anger, and partly out of some inner pain that I might never truly fathom. She tries to hide the tear cascading down her face, and she catches it before anyone else can see her cry. "Out of all the 3 billion men in the world, why did you have to choose the one who treated me like dirt, tried to kill me, and told me I was useless, waste of space?" My heart breaks for my strong, yet insecure friend. I try to wrap my arms around her, but she shoves me away.

"Don't," she warns carefully. "You can't make this all okay. He is not a good guy, no matter how charming, no matter how human he might seem in the moment, it doesn't erase all the bad." Something flickers behind her eyes, like she's far off somewhere else, but before she can embark on another round of Damon bashing, I hold up my hand in stopping motion, because I've heard enough.

"Everything you're saying would've made perfect sense a year ago, but whether you can see it or not, the man that did those things is gone. And the man who replaced him _is_ far better than anyone truly knows. If you want to judge someone," I challenge, "Judge me, because I'm the one who changed my mind. I'm the one who left Stefan after promising that choosing him was the best choice I ever made. So hate me, call me fickle or cruel or a selfish bitch if you have to, but don't act like Damon's scum beneath my feet, because I won't stand for it," I vow with an unshakeable conviction.

Caroline holds her fingers to her lips, as if trapping the words from spilling out. The disbelief at my whole hearted defense of the one person she hates the most is present in her facial expressions, her body language, in her entire being. I have no idea how to repair the rift that my feelings for Damon have caused, but I can read Caroline well enough to know that I haven't won any victories today. All I've done is fight a bloody battle. It's only 11 a.m., and I'm so damn exhausted.

Caroline proceeds to give me the silent treatment, which I know is serious, since I believe her only excuse for not talking involves either rest or unconsciousness. Just as I'm about to slink off to join Damon in a drinking pity party, Caroline's arm abruptly stops my retreat. Hope lingers in my eyes as I pray this is some small gesture of peace between us. "You're my friend, Elena," she reaffirms fervently. "No matter what happens, you need to know that nothing that you ever do in this life could make me stop loving you. You're like my sister," she claims. I smile appreciatively at the words I've been dying to hear from my friends since I turned. I feel a sliver of joy again, until I spot the sharp turn in Caroline's face, the break in her choked up voice, and I realize that this isn't acceptance. This is something else. "This road that you're taking, I can't follow. I don't know how to be your friend and watch you break Stefan's heart. So if it comes down to choice, a decision about whose side to stand on, I'm on his."

The knowledge hits me harder than a stake through the gut, and I'm battling a wave of tears as my best friend for over a decade just announced she didn't choose me. I'm about to back away, tuck my tail between my legs, and put as much distance between us as possible, when Klaus glides over towards Caroline, offering a drink in his hands, which she all too graciously accepts.

Disgust rises like bile in my throat at the man who murdered my Aunt Jenna, ordered Jeremy run over by a car, and repeatedly tried to kill me. And my so called best friend was here on a _date_ with him. Talk about hypocrisy. Caroline tries to salvage some of her moral high ground as she tries to reason with me when she notices my growing anger. "Klaus gave up his hybrid to save you, Elena. One date, that was the deal. I thought you knew," Caroline desperately explains, trying to justify her actions to either me or herself.

"I did know, Caroline," I admit bitterly. "I just thought your face might glow less while it was happening, my mistake. Maybe you should give me another lecture on the immorality of falling for mass murderers." She visibly flinches at my not so subtle insult, but I don't have the strength left to care. I went straight for the jugular with my criticisms, because I am so tired of judgment from people who act no better than I do. No more, I resolve. I won't let others dictate my life to me, and with that I storm off to find Damon. At least he can put some perspective on this whole screwed up mess.

I find him a couple of drinks ahead of me, hiding in the Lockwood study. I assume trying to avoid the company of all the people that he hates at this party, which is pretty much everyone excluding me and Liz. He takes one look at my leftover fury from the showdown with Caroline, and Damon pours me a generous helping of bourbon that he places wordlessly in my hands. "So some party," Damon jokes, breaking the angry, tense silence. I can't help a chuckle or two that escapes from my mouth.

"Well we have made it a good twenty minutes, and so far no one's died yet, so this might count as our best party ever," I sarcastically quip, earning myself a rare laugh out of Damon.

"Well it is still early," he assures me before refilling the glass that I somehow managed to down in one gulp. All the tension melts away at the familiarity of spending time alone with the one person who makes me feel strong.

Time passes quickly for after that. We drink, we laugh, and we completely forget about the life outside that door. Somewhere amidst the beginnings of my early alcohol buzz, a thought occurs to me that I can't keep to myself any longer. "Do you ever stop to think about how ridiculous our lives are?" I ask Damon, suddenly feeling philosophical. I mean one year ago I was here with Stefan, and I was so _sure_ that he was the one, and now I'm here hiding from my best friend, and drinking away my sorrows with my ex's brother. When did my life become a teenage soap opera?"

Damon shakes his head and scoffs a little my inner musings. "You two have broken up so many times that I don't even treat it as real unless it passes the one week test. I'm certain you'll be _sure_ about your love for Stefan tomorrow or next week, so I wouldn't waste much time waxing on about it. Waste of time, energy, and good alcohol in my opinion."

I grow quieter as I swirl what's left of my bourbon in its glass. "It's different this time," I promise, honestly, openly, and for the first time.

Clearly not buying what I'm selling, Damon pushes, out of curiosity if nothing else. "Then enlighten me, how is this time different from all the many others?" His voice carries a deep skepticism and distance.

My words come out barely above a whisper, as I swear I wouldn't have the strength or courage to say it any louder, "Because this time I ended it to be with you." A second of shock, of hope, and of joy register across his handsome features, and I can't help feeling elated that I'm responsible for bringing Damon even a moment of pure happiness. He deserves it more than he knows.

But because this is Mystic Falls, and every one of its citizens has deputized themselves as protectors of my virtue, Jeremy interrupts us, earning him a hateful scowl from both Damon and I. My dear brother requests an audience alone with me. A request Damon reluctantly grants, but not before cursing Jeremy's name under his breath, along with a few choice words I'd rather not repeat in mixed company.

I feel terrible for being such a neglectful sister. Jeremy's dealing with all this hunter stuff all alone, so I strive to pay closer attention from now on. Sadly this thought might have come a day too late as I spot the stake that my brother pulls out of his jacket pocket. His moves are fast and backed up by his substantial increase in strength. Within seconds of the first swing of Jeremy's arm, Damon swoops in, along with Matt in tow, and pulls him off me. Damon delivers one effective punch to Jeremy's jaw, and he crumbles to the ground. Matt lifts him up and places him comfortably on the couch. The always dependable quarterback offers to watch over him, since being surrounded by a pair of vampires might be a jarring way for a hunter to wake up.

As Damon and I inconspicuously exit the study, Stefan races towards us, immediately alarmed at the signs of a violent struggle and my unconscious brother left in its wake. Stefan stares at the scene in shock as he stumbles over what to say. "I didn't think. I didn't mean to," Stefan offers repentantly. He looks so lost, so broken by what's happened here today, that I know he's to blame for all of this.

I put together the pieces in my head as I drag Stefan out of the house and onto the front lawn. We're not ten feet outside before my accusations start flying. "Tell me you wouldn't do this," I beg pleadingly. "Tell me, Stefan!" I nearly scream at him. "Look me in the eyes and swear to me that you wouldn't strip me of the last family I have left just because you think I need to be fixed."

Stefan's eyes shift toward the ground as his debilitating guilt creeps in. "Don't you?" He asks in a weak, defeated tone. "Yesterday you wanted this. Your humanity meant everything to you. What, 24 hours has gone by, and suddenly you're not interested?"

"You know I would never chase this cure at the expense of my brother. So what I'm _interested_ in Stefan, is why this is so important to you. Why do you _need_ to fix me?"

His face goes ghostly white as if he's been struck with a violent and sudden illness that's eating away at him. "You changed," is all Stefan can muster in his own defense. "I don't know how to accept that the woman I loved is gone, and all because I chose to let her drown. I don't know how I'll ever get past that."

My heart breaks for him as I finally recognize the emotion clouding his face, _grief._ He's in mourning for the girl I used to be, for the girl he _used_ to love. The realization is a painful pill to swallow, and it stings my insides like acid as it goes down. "You don't love me anymore do you? Not like this."

"I didn't say that," he quickly refutes, but I can read in between the lines of his carefully chosen words, and I already have my answer.

"You didn't have to," I reply sadly, more pitying and disappointed than truly angry. "You've always respected my choices Stefan, so please hear me when I tell you that I want you to stop this search. Being a vampire is a part of who I am now, and no cure on Earth is going to fix that. So please Stefan, just let me go."

And with that, our so called great love goes out with a whimper instead of a bang. Stefan retreats away from the party, and hopefully away from any masses of people that he might feel compelled to snack on in the name of binge eating.

Fortunately for me, Damon isn't far behind, and I sense his presence long before I feel the touch of his hand on my shoulder. "My broody brother hasn't broken down your wall of denial yet, has he?" Damon asks genuinely. It's his own way of asking if I'm okay, without really asking, and I'm grateful for it.

"No," I answer simply. "But my best friend threatened to break up with me, my brother tried to kill me, and the man who told me he wanted to spend eternity with me can't love me anymore, so I'd say we've put in our obligatory 15 minutes for these events. Don't you think?"

Bittersweetly, he smiles at me, nods, and leads me back towards his car, with his hand never leaving my lower back. Once we're back at the boardinghouse, Stefan is nowhere to be found, and a note is left on the table explaining that he'll be crashing at Caroline's tonight. It doesn't take me long to make a beeline for Damon's liquor as I bring us both back some liquid relief. He settles in next to me as I scooch closer towards him, leaning my head against his chest in a way that's new for us. I quietly sip my alcohol as I try to act for one second like this all normal, like this _could be_ my new normal.

The intertwining of my hand with his is the move that forces Damon out of silence. "While I'm typically opposed to talking about squishy feelings, I don't think we can avoid it this time."

I rise up off his chest and rest my recently freed hand to his cheek. "I want to be with you," I state blatantly and without hesitation, "And I don't regret what breaking up with Stefan. If I have any regrets, it's not getting a chance to dance with you today," I add sweetly, hoping that I've made myself clear enough for him.

When he stands up, I fear he's about to walk away, but he holds his hand out, waiting for me to take it. "I wouldn't want to screw with tradition," he jokes lightly. "Who knows what kind of bad karma that might bring."

Anxiously, I accept his offer and connect our fingers together as he pulls me in his arms. This dance is a painfully slow one. I keep waiting for something to happen, something to change, but I can't help reveling in this feeling of being held so close. The sway of our bodies move instinctively as one, and it feels so perfect, that I swear I hear music playing in the background. I start to worry we'll be literally and metaphorically dancing around this forever, but in a truly smooth move, Damon spins me out, only to bring me into a searing kiss that I readily give into. Before I know it, my hands are grabbing everywhere, first on his face, then his back, until my fingers are caressing the curls of his hair.

Not feeling close enough or rough enough, I speed us both over to the nearest upright surface, knocking over a lamp in my frenzied need for more. Damon spares one glance at the fallen appliance, but he must really want to have sex with me, because he leaves a mess alone for the first time since I've known him. And after a few seconds of heavy making out, I skim across his chest, and feel a burning desire to move this along. I rip open his button up shirt and run my hands teasingly over his chest. I detect a slight hitch in his breathing, but it's hard to tell, since both of us sound like we've been running a marathon with all the panting.

I press myself as close to possible until I'm practically devouring him with my tongue. I can feel his hardness press against me, and it makes my moves even more frantic and hungry. I can tell the feeling is mutual when Damon wrestles control from me, never one to stay submissive for too long. My back hits hard against the fireplace as Damon cups my ass and holds me in place, pushing his far too clothed erection against my core, inflaming me with desire. After another minute of exploring his mouth, losing myself in the new sensations, I decide a bed might be a more suitable venue to continue this little tryst.

I race us both upstairs and pause in the middle of his room, as Damon slowly but passionately undresses me, kissing my shoulders, my stomach, wherever he finds new skin that he's never explored before, he touches it. My own patience reaches a breaking point when I realize that I'm standing in my underwear, and Damon still has on his pants and his ripped shirt. I make quick order of fixing this grievous error before pushing him roughly against his thankfully massive king size bed. I'm straddling above him, holding him down, and loving the power that it brings me as I take full responsibility for bringing him pleasure.

The separation of our lips is quickly remedied as I feel the constant need to be connected to him in every way possible. In our endless struggle for dominance, Damon flips me over, and hovers above me, before ripping my bra down the middle in favor of exploring my breasts with his mouth instead of his constantly moving fingers. He teases my erect nipples until I feel like dying or killing him. And just when I think this will all end in his bloody murder for torturing me like this, he slips a finger into my wet center. All thoughts of homicide vacate my brain as I push harder against the single digit just dying for some friction. When one finger becomes two, I become convinced that this sex will be the death of me, yet oddly my self-preservational instincts don't kick in to stop me.

Damon is never one to linger too long with anything, like an ADHD kid on sugar. So he removes his fingers, much to my disappointment, and he starts kissing down my chest, driving me crazy with his endless teasing. Once his mouth reaches its destination, I take back every bad thing I've ever said about him, because clearly after this, we're beyond even. I buck against his face, which is buried deviously in me, bringing me closer and closer to the edge. Just as I'm about to tip over it, he pulls back, and I reconsider my murder plans. He moves back to the less fun part of my body and resumes kissing me and sucking on my neck, completely oblivious to his imminent death. But the infuriating bastard has to start tickling me with his tongue, and I can't help but giggle carelessly against his neck, so I'll probably save killing him for later.

Instead I decide on a far better revenge. I flip him over, regaining the upper hand once more in our extension of this little dance, and I mimic his technique as I kiss further down his abdomen. His arms raised above his head, grasping at the pillows, tell me that this is working perfectly. He's putty in my hands, and I take full advantage. I take the tip of his erection as far as it will go in my mouth and suck hard, hoping to surprise and shock the experienced vampire. What I lack in know-how, I more than make up for in enthusiasm, and this earns me a guttural moan from Damon that tells me he's either enjoying himself immensely, or he's being horribly murdered. Both were possibilities at one point tonight. As a spiteful parallel to his treatment of me earlier, I pull away just when I feel him getting close.

I stare at his look of frustration with glee, until he flips me back over and glides his hardened member right into me, as if to say 'ha, I won this round.' After I feel him filling me up and stretching me out, rational thought flies out the window, and I surrender completely to Damon's control and to this feeling. We both need the release after so much pent up sexual frustration, so when I finally feel myself crashing down from my own 'little death,' I want to weep in relief. I feel him spill into me, and I place one lingering kiss on his lips while we're still joined as one.

As I recover from one of the more intense encounters of my life, akin to a religious experience, I can't help noticing the beautiful, satisfied smile on Damon's face. He's wearing his best, I just got laid smirk, and I'd give anything to be inside his head right now.

* * *

(Luckily you can be)

My life is perfect. Right now, this second, I've achieved nirvana, inner peace, whatever the Hell you want to use to describe it, I'm there. I just made love to the object of my every dream, and she's lying against my chest peering up at me with the cutest smile on her face. Normally I'd find such scrutiny creepy, but on her, it comes off as romantic, and I'm eating it up like a kid shovels in ice cream. It gets even better when Elena asks, "So you never did answer my question. Are all of those sexual positions possible, because if so I need to get back into yoga to keep up?" I nearly swallow my own tongue at her semi-serious joke.

I kiss the top of her head, and smooth out her hair as I reply happily, "Yes, all of those were real. Anytime you want to try one out all you have to do is ask," I offer graciously. Instead of smacking me for being inappropriate, she kisses me fully and deeply, as if sealing the promise of our future with her lips. My contentment would be complete if I didn't have one nagging thought in my head. It wasn't about the longevity of Elena and I's relationship, and it wasn't about what the peanut gallery would think of our new coupling. I am the crazy person who's worried about a broken lamp as a goddess lays naked in my arms. You don't need to tell me. I know I'm a dumbass.

But it's broken and it's dirty, and anyone could just step on it, so I oh so subtlely bring it up to Elena. "You know what I like to do after sex?" I pose innocently.

"Have more sex?" Elena responds, trying to stifle her laughter.

"No," I answer, rolling my eyes at her belief that I only have a one track mind. "I like to be productive, stretch those muscles, maybe do a little light cleaning," I suggest sneakily.

She picks up quickly on my recommended after sex activities, and from the glare she's giving me, I'd take that as a no. "You want us to go clean up that lamp that I broke don't you?" She asks with a bit of irritation and a bit of humor at my neuroses.

"Well technically _you_ broke it, and my mother always taught me to clean up after myself," I inform her teasingly.

"Well I can barely move because of you, so I think I'll stay in this bed thank you very much," she replies defiantly, a streak I find both aggravating and sexy at the same time.

"Oh come on, Elena," I beg with my most charming smile. "Go clean up the lamp for me." And to my complete shock, she pulls back the covers and shimmies into the infamous red underwear that I just have not seen enough of. And after searching for wherever we threw her clothes, she settles for one of my shirts that I swear has never looked better than it does loosely draped around Elena's body. Without any further debate, she leaves my room, I assume to pick up the fallen lamp.

I still can't process that the most stubborn woman I know is actually listening to me, especially about something so trivial, so I throw on a pair of pants and wander downstairs to watch history in the making. I stare in disbelief, standing against the wall, as Elena picks up the broken pieces and throws them in the trash. Confused by this bizarre twist in Elena's mood, I decide to have some fun with her and playfully joke with her while she works. "You are a first rate maid, almost as good as me," I compliment, spiritedly. "After you're done with that, get out the duster and see if you can't rid the living room of any dust bunnies," I joke kiddingly.

While I fully expect Elena to throw the nearest object at my head for making fun of her, she surprises me as she picks up the duster and meticulously searches the room for even a speck of dirt. Doubt settles into my stomach as I realize this isn't her. This isn't Elena. She barely listens to my reasonable arguments, and she'd never indulge me this far for a joke. Not of her own free will. The idea troubles me, because I know I'm not an original, so I can't compel her. It takes another minute of possible explanations racing through my mind before I finally figure it out. When the thought finally reaches my brain, I want to sink to the floor and cry like a pansy ass wuss, because this can't be happening.

But I am not a cry baby girl, so instead I test my theory in the only way I know how, by telling Elena to do something I know she won't want to do. "I'm sorry," I whisper, immediately catching her attention.

She's finished with her dusting, and she rushes over to see what could possibly be wrong at a time like this. "What's wrong?" She asks in a panic, and my heart clenches with dread.

"I don't want to do this, and I know how this will affect you, but I have to know. I have to know if this is real," I confess with desperation in my voice.

"Of course it's real," Elena cries out, as she clings tightly to me, placing kisses against my neck. I barely find the strength to push her away as I stare blankly at her confused and worried expression.

"Without question, you're going to go to the kitchen, grab a knife, and come right back," I order strongly, leaving no room for doubt. I keep hoping she'll argue with me, fight me, or even start laughing at me. But when she comes back with the knife, I feel like I want to die. It's still not enough though, not enough to be sure. The next words out of my mouth quite literally hurt me more than they do her. "Now I want you to stab me with that knife," I tell her forcefully.

Her head shakes violently in opposition, pleading with me not to do this. It takes all the strength I have left to make the request again. "Stab me, Elena. Do it right now. That's an order," I announce hesitantly, not wanting to believe even now. The pain of the blade as it cuts through my flesh puts a swift end to my denial.

But as expected, once the knife left her hand, Elena started crying, quickly removing the weapon from my chest as she whimpered about how sorry she was, as if any of this was her fault. I hold her against me, for what will probably be the last time as I tell her, "You didn't do anything wrong, Elena. You're sired to me. You didn't have a choice," I inform her, practically sticking the knife back in my gut.

I really should've known better. A century and a half of life experience, and somehow I didn't see this coming. None of this was real, not her promises, not her touch, not any of it, and I don't know how I'll ever recover.

**As Always Please Read and Review**


	3. Chapter 3

**Well 12 long hours later, and this is finally done! So as some of you might notice, this story is now taking a rather drastic turn from the show's main storyline, which is good, because I hate feeling like I have to mold my story to fit with the never-ending twists that I never could have seen coming. Also it starts to feel less fresh and original if I stick with most of the show's plot lines. I hope that you guys like the direction that I'm taking this, and please leave me a review and tell me what you think. If you loved it, if you hated it, if you can't believe Delena is really happening, and you just need one more place to squeal about it, leave me a comment at the bottom.**

**As always, a big virtual hug to each and every one of my reviewers, especially the guest ones who I can't respond to personally. I've loved reading what each and every one of you wrote. And of course a thank you to my beloved sounding board Cher Sue for talking me through 3 writer's crises. You're the best! I hope you all enjoy.**

Trembling hands grasp my face, as Elena holds me captive, not realizing that she's trapping me in the same spot where my worst fears and insecurities were realized. And while I currently want to rip my own heart from my chest, I've got to give props to whatever higher power orchestrated this rather tragic revelation. I mean if everything that's happened since Elena turned, her trusting me, her depending on me, and her sleeping with me was all some big cosmic joke, then the fates must really be fucking with me. The one time someone chose me, the one time someone loved me, and it was nothing more than a _mistake_, a flaw in destiny's grand design for her and my brother to be the poster children for 'epic love.' Fucking typical is what it is. I can't take another second of false promises and empty emotions, and currently my fight or flight response is heavily tilted towards the latter. As strong as Elena is as a vampire, she doesn't have the strength to hold me, and with one firm but gentle shove against her shoulders, I'm free. But since I'm certain Elena will major in stubbornness if she does ever manage to stumble upon a college campus, she doesn't let me go so easily. One lightning fast vamp move and she's holding my whole arm hostage with an unwavering defiance.

"Don't," she begs in quiet desperation. "Don't pull away." The sincerity, that on any other day I'd swear was real, does nothing to sway me. I harden myself for the inevitable pain, because after playing out all the possible outcomes in my head, I despairingly accept that my future isn't exactly filled with gumdrops and unicorns. If it wasn't for this blasted sire bond, she'd see it too. We were doomed from the very start, and any fleeting belief to the contrary was nothing more than a foolish desire to change the order of things.

And while there may not be any hope for _my_ happiness, Elena still has a shot at it, and after everything that she's given me, this one glorious and painful night included, I owe her that much. So instead of moping, yelling, or clinging to the beautiful denial of it all, I resolve not to make this harder on her, after all it wasn't Elena's fault that she didn't love me. It was just the way that the world worked. Women could screw me, care about me, but never love me. That was always the elusive emotion that I've spent a century and a half futilely chasing. So with my cynical conviction, I revert to my go to indifference. I find it helps when trying to convince people that I don't give a crap. "No need to look all pouty," I advise in my best asshole voice, one that I've carefully perfected over the years. "This is good news. You can perk up," I suggest with a false cheeriness. As Elena stares at me like I've lost my mind, I put more distance between us, since the amount of furniture between her body and mine will greatly increase the chances of me resisting my less than noble intentions.

She shifts closer with every retreating step, almost mimicking the steps to one of those Latin dances like a romantic rumba, as she chases me right when I'm determined to run away. Eventually I place my hands on both shoulders, stopping her in her tracks. "It's okay," I promise, more convincingly than I believed myself capable of acting. "You don't have to feel guilty anymore. Hell, it should be a relief to you. It wasn't your consuming love for me that led you to dump my baby bro. Your beloved principles weren't compromised by sleeping with the bad boy," I assure her, with a believable mask of apathy. "When you think about it, the past few weeks make a lot more sense," I surmise as I catalog all the moments that are now tainted by Elena's lack of free will. "I should've known something was wrong when you couldn't drink from blood bags," I reflect remorsefully, feeling like an idiot for not putting the pieces together sooner. "I'm not quite sure how this works, but as your sire, I want you to feed however you choose," I command confidently. "If you want to drink from blood bags, so be it. If it's people, that's your choice too. And if you're crazy enough to follow in my brother's footsteps, then I won't stop you. Just do whatever you want," I order miserably, fighting the temptation to leave without a word.

Sadly for us both, the one trait that was most definitely magnified from Elena's transition was her steadfast loyalty. She is a warrior, even half-dressed in lacy red underwear and a half torn button up, and Elena can't back down from a fight. She doesn't know how. Given her track record, I shouldn't have been surprised when her tender arms circled around me in an affectionate embrace. Her tears fell from her heartbreakingly broken face and traveled down my bare chest as she clung a little tighter. "You're wrong," Elena swears, with unshakable faith in the truth of her words. "My feelings for you aren't new. They're a progression of all that we've shared together, every moment of trust and understanding that's only bonded us closer. How can you not see that?" She asks in disbelief. Her expression obscured with concern and deep sadness.

I roll my eyes at the ridiculous nature of her question. "You want to take a walk down memory lane, and relive_ our_ history, really? Because I think your recollection might be a little spotty in places if you think your behavior towards me is reason enough for me to accept your feelings as real, especially with some pretty compelling evidence to the contrary. It's always gonna be Stefan, remember?"

She vents in aggravation before stomping her foot and shouting, "Will you for once just let that go? I said it in the heat of the moment, when I was desperately trying not to cheat on my boyfriend. Can you still hold that against me?" Elena questions, hurt at my dogged desire to avoid her advances. "Find me one teenager who doesn't think they'll be with their high school boyfriend forever. When you're young like that, all love feels like forever love."

Damn she's persuasive, I curse to myself. I thought she'd make less sense, possibly sound like the minion slave Tyler was when he was Klaus' little bitch boy. But she is so _sure, _so _certain_, it is pretty much impossible to call her a liar when she is gazing at me with those beautiful doe eyes, begging for love, for acceptance, for all the same things that I longed for as well.

The tingling sensation shooting down my spine, alerted me to Elena's wandering hands that were rubbing soothing circles across my back, like she was quieting a crying child. I hadn't felt such comfort since I was a small boy, and I gave myself sixty seconds to live in this peaceful bubble before returning to the harsh reality of the world. And when my minute was up, I pulled back timidly, not wanting to see the rejection in Elena's face.

And just as I'm about to make my oh so painful exit, Elena clasps my hands together in a cocoon within her own. She holds them to her heart and asks, "Give me the day, 24 hours to research what this sire bond really means. I can talk to Tyler, get some answers," Elena offers optimistically, her eyes filled with such naïve innocence. "I won't let you go without a fight," she promises, and I struggle not to get all sentimental and mushy at all the squishy, gushy feelings flying around.

"One day," I compromise, trying not get caught up in the emotion as Elena places a reassuring kiss on my lips, that I swear I only return on instinct. She prances off on her little mission as I break out my special brand of liquor, the stuff I was saving for if the world was ever about to end, which I fear for me it's about to. I lose myself in the familiar burn as the minutes turn into hours, and the metaphorical hour glass grows closer to spilling its last grain of sand.

Once I grow fed up of drinking all by myself, I change into a clean set of clothes and take up residence on my unofficial private stool at the Grille. The lunchtime rush is in full swing, and I'm glad to find that I'm not the only one drinking away my sorrows long before happy hour. One of the town drunks whose name I can't remember is tossing back Scotch faster than the bartender can pour it. He's reaching that clumsy stage, because as he signals the bartender for another round, he ineptly knocks over my glass of bourbon right into my lap. I wave over the bartender to pour me another, and the routine is so common to him now, that he doesn't even question why I don't touch the second glass sitting in front of Ric's old chair.

Now that I'm reeking of finely brewed alcohol, I head towards the restroom to attempt to dry my rather expensive pair of jeans with the bathroom hand dryers. Upon my return, I immediately sense that something is different, and in my investigative game of I Spy, I notice that Ric's glass is mysteriously empty. I give the evil eye to every unsuspecting patron at the bar until my gaze falls on the boozy who spilled my drink. He suddenly looks suspiciously nervous and twitchy, which either means he's the culprit or the shakes have started early today. I vacate my usual seat at the bar, and cozy up to the awkward drunk who avoids eye contact like he's afraid I have a death rays that shoot out of my retinas.

My arm swings around the stranger's shoulders in faux act of friendship as I whisper menacingly, "You drank my buddy's bourbon. Unfortunately for you this is an offense typically resolved through gratuitous violence," I threaten dangerously, not in the mood to play nice with a man who can't even hold his liquor.

"I . . . I didn't," the man stutters, terrified at how easily I could snap his small frame like a twig. "I'm Freddie Winters. I'm a psychiatrist, and I didn't see your friend."

"Pfft," I scoff in disdain. "That's because he's invisible," I state obviously, not even thrown by Freddie's quizzical looks. "He's a ghost," I explain further, seeing as how the good doctor doesn't seem to be the brightest student out of med school. "And my bizarre choice in ghostly friends aside, what's a shrink doing drinking in the middle of the day? Don't you have people lining up to psychoanalyze themselves to death?"

Freddie starts to look all squirrely again as he admits, "I kind of lost my license. My little habit doesn't exactly sit well with the medical board," Freddie explains, bitterly. "But just because I'm not practicing anymore doesn't mean that I can't help you," he assures me, with an alarming sense of clarity given how much alcohol he's consumed in the past few hours.

The nerve of that guy! He drinks my dead best friend's bourbon, and _I'm _the one with problems. "Listen buddy, I appreciate the unsolicited advice on my mental health, but I think I've got this covered," I respond patronizingly, while patting him on the back. Killing him is too much effort, and I'm already bored.

This man must have a death wish, because after I return to my usual stool, he has the gall to sit in Ric's special spot. "That seat's taken," I warn with a frightening darkness behind my threat.

Freddie walks over to the other side of me and remarks sarcastically, "By your imaginary friend?" The good doctor asks in alarm.

"No," I correct him indignantly. "He's not imaginary. Ric just happens to be less alive than I prefer." What a quack! He can't even listen properly.

He eyes me warily before pulling out a pen and scribbling down something on a cocktail napkin. "This is the name of a trusted friend. He specializes in grief and delusions. I'd give him a call, and schedule an emergency session. Because I'm an alcoholic divorcee who got kicked out of the medical profession for showing up to my own disciplinary hearing intoxicated, and I'm saying _you've_ got some problems man."

I take the napkin as Freddie stumbles out to call himself a cab. Apparently my downward spiral has served as a cautionary tale to the huddled masses. Isn't that really damn depressing?

And just when I'm convinced my life can't get any more pathetic, Matt Donovan takes pity on me. Now I know that my life has gone tragically wrong somehow. The quarterback takes the 'empty' seat to my right without having to be told, and he buys me another drink, because apparently I look enough like a sad puppy that even busboys feel sorry for me now. "Whatever stirring speech you're about to deliver about bucking up, or the sun coming out tomorrow, could you just mail it to me, because I'd rather not listen to your stirring rhetoric at the moment?" I glibly insult the well intentioned do gooder.

Unfazed by my rudeness, the pesky human doesn't shy away; instead he orders himself a drink like we're actually friends or something. "So what Elena drama is there this week?" Matt deduces, far more observant than I give him credit for. "Playing guardian to a vampire slaying teenager means I'm pretty much out of the loop, so what's the latest on my favorite member of the undead?"

Since Donovan shows no signs of stopping, and actually managed to crack a decent joke, I tolerate his presence a little longer and answer his question. "She's sired to me as it turns out, which is pretty much the cherry on top of this whole craptastic month," I reply angrily, as I empty another glass of top shelf liquor. "And let's just say the timing of this epiphany could've been better," I add miserably, as I allow the quarterback to drawn his own conclusions. Too caught up in my own misery, I ignore the male incarnation of Elena Gilbert, until I recognize the familiar signs of uncalled for compassion.

"I'm sorry," Matt replies, with far more sincerity than I deserve from the brother of Vicki Donovan. "I don't really get all this supernatural witchy mojo, but if Elena's anything like Ty was with Klaus, then I'm sorry."

I shrug my shoulders and try to disregard the empathetic stares as I avoid any and all attempts at bonding. "Small hiccup," I lie smoothly. "Once I break the bond, Elena will be right back to writing sonnets about her endless love for Stefan, and I will finally be free from filler boyfriend duties," I predict, a false sense of relief echoing in my voice.

"You don't actually expect anyone to believe all that bull you just spewed do you?" The quarterback challenges bravely. "Because I used to muck out the stables at my grandpa's farm, and even back then, I didn't see anything covered in this much crap."

As I'm considering how pissed Elena would be if I removed his spine through his esophagus, the kid gets even ballsier. "I may not know anything about sire bonds or vampires or pretty much anything that you guys talk about, which is why I spend the majority of my time nodding my head a lot and acting like I get it. But one thing I do know is that in our entire relationship, she never once looked at me the way that she looks at you. She never once talked about me the way that she talks about you."

"She talks about me?" I ask in childlike delight, before realizing it's probably only the result of the sire bond. If you're forced to make your sire happy, you're bound to bring them up in casual conversation a couple times. That's why I don't get my hopes up. Wishful thinking is for fools and people who buy lottery tickets. I am far too highly evolved for such stupidity. This mature thinking lasts for about sixty seconds until the world's poorest high school student keeps lifting my spirits with all his so called insight.

"Before she turned," Matt recalls nostalgically, "before she made that absurd choice between you and Stefan, I'm probably the only person she talked to about her _secret_ feelings." Matt admits, using air quotes around the word 'secret,' and he does so with a bit of hesitation, likely feeling weird for divulging Elena's most well-guarded inner emotions.

Not trying to give myself away, I ask casually, like I'm inquiring about the weather. "So she had feelings for me before she was a vampire?" I ask with a hint of boredom in my tone that would probably only fool someone who didn't know what the boy's answer would mean to me.

Donovan's bullshit meter was probably blaring loudly, but he had the good sense to keep it to himself. "Well," he confesses timidly, not sure how much to divulge without breaking his and Elena's BFF code. "She said that you consumed her and that she couldn't shake how she felt about you," Matt recounts, with a smug arrogance that a humble busboy simply cannot pull off. "I told her that when you fall in love with someone that you could never really shake them, and the strange thing is that she didn't say a word to correct me. Whatever you might think about how this sire bond affects Elena, she loved you then, and she loves you now, man."

Now I know all this heart to heart bro bonding has had an impact, because I haven't touched my drink in over five minutes. The quarterback's words float around in my head as I try to piece together what this all means. If she loved me before, then maybe I was blowing this all out of proportion. Maybe this was all real, and this is just another in a long line of bumps along the way. My glimmer of hope only burns brighter as the bizarrely accepting busboy shoots for the record for most amount of time spent _not_ hating me. Technically Elena is the permanent record holder, but Matt's at least striving for a very distant second.

"This is kind of weird to say," Matt begins self-consciously, "because of all the times you tried to murder me and stuff, but you're not as bad as they say." He even tries for an awkward smile. It occurs to me that this kid must be starved for attention if he's trying to befriend me. Perhaps he needs a puppy or something. I should look into that. As I assess the feasibility and effort involved in buying the quarterback a puppy, I can't help but be impressed at how well he holds his own against me. Perhaps I was a bit hasty in turning him down as a possible drinking companion. In the past hour, the busboy's actually risen, like a notch, in my opinion of him, because moderate approval from one of Elena's friends, is equivalent to one of them throwing a surprise party in my honor. Most days all I expect from Judgy and Judgier is slightly veiled contempt.

And not that I'm not appreciative, but unlike most pretty people, I am instantly suspicious of anyone whose nice to me, unless they're a hot girl wanting to hook up. The quarterback is most definitely not a hot girl, so I'm kind of stumped. "Since when did you break ranks and join team Damon?" I lightly question, not wanting to rouse any suspicions. "Don't get me wrong, it's very exclusive club, and we dress better, but I wouldn't have pegged you as the type to be on my side." I eye him distrustfully as I try to gleam what nefarious plot is afoot with his odd habit of acting all buddy, buddy.

"I'm team Elena on this one," he announces proudly, and I can't help the tiny smile of understanding at the sentiment. "She loves you, and from what I've seen, Elena's a pretty good judge of character, so if she sees something in you, then there must be something there. Also you've got a better track record for not letting her die than Stefan does, so it gives you a bit of a leg up in my book," Matt confesses appreciatively.

Okay I'll admit it, the Donovan kid isn't the worst person in town to spend the day with. As a sign of goodwill, I even buy the kid a hamburger and an order of chili fries. On his salary, I'd be surprised if he eats anything other than Ramen Noodles. As Matt consumes his meal with the ravenous hunger of a newborn vampire, I question him further, still trying to piece together the jigsaw puzzle that is the resident 'good guy' of Mystic Falls. "So all this niceness, it's because Stefan let her drown," I remark, catching him off guard, as Matt places his french fry back on his plate to answer my question.

"Partly," he admits enigmatically, like he's still trying to figure it out himself. "I guess I just figured you'd always save her, even from herself," Matt confesses. He displays a surprising selflessness and open mindedness that I don't see near enough of from Elena's so called 'friends.' "I know I don't say a lot," he states simply, "and when you don't speak much, you become kind of invisible, but I think that you understand that, because sometimes you act invisible too. You don't advertise your victories, but the long list of people that hate you take joy in harping over your every mistakes. That night at the Mikaelson party, you saved me, for no other reason than because Elena wanted me alive. I'm not sure the same guy who knocked me unconscious and tried to drive Elena off a bridge would've done the same. So don't think I don't see who cares about my friend the most, or who she'd end up with if the world were fair."

When I'm perilously close to touching Matt on the shoulder, which in guy terms is like a two minute girl hug, I'm saved by the bell at the sound of Elena's ringtone. I answer in a far better mood than I could claim an hour ago. "So," I start out uneasily, "I might've been a little hasty in jumping to conclusions," I admit, with what I assume passes for an apology.

I don't know how, but I swear I hear smiling and gloating on the other end of the phone. "Really?" She mocks in shocked disbelief. "You don't say? And here I was thinking you'd be surprised that Tyler basically told me your whole theory about the sire bond was dumb."

"What?" I reply in stunned glee, even going so far as to do a little Damon happy dance in my head. There is a lot of hip movement involved, so for the sake of the elderly and the faint of heart, I try not to do it too much in public.

"Just so I'm clear, can I tell you I told you so now, or do I have to wait to do it in person?" Elena messes with me, as a laugh passes through her lips and I take a second to enjoy the playful ribbing. "He said that he hated Klaus, even while he was sired to him, so my lovey dovey feelings for you, 100% real." Her light tone turns a bit serious and it holds a strong pleading as she continues. "It doesn't fix everything, and I know I can't stay sired to you indefinitely, but what _I_ _want_ right now is to jump back into your bed and relive last night, you know without the cleaning and the stabbing and stuff."

"I'll be home soon," I promise happily, practically high as a kite from excitement. My day went from horrible misery to best day _ever!_ All I have to do to seal this into my top ten list of life experiences is to see Elena again, so willing, so affectionate, and obviously in a preferable state of undress. My brilliant evening plans come crashing down as buzz kill Bob halts my exit with a firm hand against my chest. What a way to ruin a perfectly good day. But seeing as how I did just sleep with his ex-girlfriend, I could probably pretend to be happy to see him.

"Stefan," I exclaim in forced excitement! "How the Hell are you buddy? Good, are you good? Excellent!" I proclaim, before my brother even has a chance to reply. "We should do this more often. Darts, you and me, tomorrow, it's a bro date, and if you're on your best behavior I might even teach you how to pick up girls." My frenzied desire to get back to Elena has reduced me to the personality of a crack addict, and I'm not even sure what I just agreed to, and I'm not even sure Stefan said anything.

But once he grabbs my arm, and whispers, "We need to talk," well unfortunately I hear that loud and clear.

"About what," I play off innocently, "sports, the weather, I heard it's going to be a nippy winter?"

"I know about the sire bond Damon," Stefan scolds judgmentally, like he's the big brother and I'm the screw up little kid.

"Yes," I confess, irritated by this turn of events. "Elena is sired to me, no, Tyler says it doesn't affect how she feels, so problem solved," I announce with a dramatic tada hand gesture.

"You really think it's that simple?" Stefan questions, with not only bossy pants, but what I assume is a bossy shirt, and maybe even bossy underpants. "You had to know I'd find out," Stefan states triumphantly. "Elena told Tyler, who told Caroline, who didn't waste three seconds before calling me."

And suddenly the ring of nosy busy bodies is complete. "Whatever speech you've got planned for how your perfect Elena could never degrade herself by being with me, save it. Matt already told me that she loved me even before she became a vampire, so this isn't because of the sire bond," I argue defiantly.

Stefan nods his head in agreement. "I know that. Elena loves you. I've known that she loved you long before you had a clue that she even liked you, so no I'm not shocked that her feelings are real."

"Then what did you come here to fight about, because if this is you giving me your blessing, it really could've waited?"

"She loves you," he repeats with difficult acceptance. "But she chose _me_. In her last moment before becoming a vampire, she chose to stay with _me._ So I'm not saying that she's lying about loving you. I'm saying that I don't think you can spend eternity questioning where a sire bond ends, and love begins. Ask yourself whether, even as a vampire, would Elena choose you if she didn't feel compelled to make you happy?"

The trouble with knowing someone for over a century is that when you want to get to them, when you want to hit them where it hurts, you know just the buttons to press to utterly destroy them, and Stefan played them like a master pianist. My fist connecting with his jaw reflects all my rage, at Stefan, at this situation, at the unfairness of it all.

I storm right out of the Grille without looking back. The drive home passes in a familiar blur, and I barely register where I am until I'm standing in the middle of my own foyer, gazing at Elena half-dressed and waiting for me, in that same ripped up black shirt.

"What's wrong?" She asks in immediate concern. Her hands are pulling me into a hug as she runs her fingers through my hair.

"Wrong? Nothing's wrong. Just had a chat with my baby bro. He made some excellent points. Best chat ever!" I exclaim with buckets full of manufactured enthusiasm. "BTW, I think we have to break up."

"What?" Elena screeches loudly. "No! I talked to you ten minutes ago, and you were fine. What the Hell happened?"

"Stefan happened," I answer intensely. "He brought up a few unavoidable truths, and the highlight reel is playing on repeat in my head."

"Whatever he said, however he twisted things around, it doesn't change how I feel about you," Elena promises persuasively. Her tears causing a far sharper pain than the kitchen knife that she wielded just last night.

"Then explain it to me, Elena, because we're dancing around, screwing, making googly eyes at each other, but we're ignoring the giant ass elephant in the room. So explain it to me!"

"Explain what?" Elena shouts back, confused at how painfully reminiscent our fight is to our one last night.

"Why didn't you pick me?" I question in abject despair. "I was dying, and alone, and you ran right back to him, so please, explain _that._"

"I can't," she whispers behind a waterfall of fallen tears. "I made a mistake."

"Oh, I believe you," I reply darkly. "I just don't know if the mistake you made was last month or last night, but I agree, one of those was definitely a _mistake_."

Elena latches on, shaking her head, as if this whole scene is part of an Etch a Sketch and she can just erase it all away. "I want to tell you things Damon. Important things that change everything, but I am so terrified that when I do that you won't believe me. I need you to know that just because I haven't said it, doesn't mean I don't feel it."

Elena's words may have been cryptic, but she's never been clearer. She loves me, and she _wants_ to tell me, but she wants it to be right. Elena wants joyful kisses and passionate lovemaking to seal her confession, and she wants a certainty from me that I can't give her, not with this doubt hanging over our heads. Continually grasping at straws, she grabs me and asks, "What if you order me to have free will? Make me break the sire bond, and then this will all be over."

It's a simple idea and I give it a try, but my tiny ray of hope is dashed when I ask her to hop on one foot afterwards, and Elena complies, her movements resembling a flamingo during an earthquake. "So much for that theory," I remark sarcastically. "Now I'd say its speech time."

"What speech?" Elena asks fearfully.

"I've never done this before, but it makes sense that if I tell you not care about me anymore that it should break the sire bond."

"No," Elena resists, "I won't let you," shaking at the prospect of what I'm about to do. "Please don't leave me." This last plea hits the hardest, because I swore that I never would.

"It's better this way, Elena," I assure her hollowly. I'm not sure I've convinced either of us that what I just said was true, but I have to say it, because if I reflect on the fact that I'm breaking both our hearts, I won't be able to get through this.

"You won't care about me anymore," I repeat through choked up words. "You'll forget all about me, and never think of me again. I'll never be happy unless you move on, so as your sire, I command you to let me go." At this point, I'm enough of a man to admit that I'm crying like little girl, and Elena's taking this worse than I am.

Frankly I expected it to be immediate, like compulsion, where haziness covers their eyes, and you can tell by their blank stares that it worked. Elena's eyes are clear, and her heart is truly broken. That's when I realize the last step. I have leave. As long as I'm here I have control over her, and she'll never be free to make her own choices. But I'm still me, just as selfish as ever, and I think I've used up my quota for nobility while delivering the magical breakup speech. I don't have the strength to leave tonight, not before taking these few precious hours, to remember her if nothing else. I'll spend the rest of eternity all alone, and I need this one night to get me through all the others to come.

Now I'm not a complete dick. I know I can't sleep with her while I know she's sired to me, but it doesn't mean I can't literally 'sleep' with her. As I wipe the tears from her face, and tuck her hair behind her ears, I place a kiss to the top of her forehead, and she stands motionless, inhaling my scent, my presence, as I do the same. "I love you," I whisper against her hair. "You made me better," I confess openly, since there'll never be another time. "You made me want to be better. You changed my life, more than I think you know. I'll never forget you, not as long as I live."

"Then don't," she pleads. "Don't say goodbye. Stay with me. Just stay right here, and I'll prove it. I'll prove that we're real. That _this," _she states while holding my hand over her heart, "is real."

"I'll stay," I promise with a cruel half-truth. As she leads me up to my bedroom for the last time, I try to pull it together. I can't waste this night with tears, and I won't waste it with sleep either. For six too brief hours, I cradle her in my arms, watch the rise and fall of her chest, and I pray to whatever deity might exist to kill me before morning comes, because that won't be half as painful as walking away.

Six a.m. and morning shines through the curtains. My conscience nags at me that I need to leave, or else this departure scene will only be harder on both of us, but I keep hitting the angel on my shoulder, like it's the snooze button on an alarm clock. When Elena turns over on her side, I know I need to leave, or else I never will. So I scribble out one last goodbye, kiss her on the forehead, and step outside to greet the rest of my eternity. My gut tells me it's going to suck.

**As Always Please Read and Review**


	4. Chapter 4

**I am so very sorry. I know that it's been like three weeks, and I feel terrible, but I just didn't have the time or the inspiration. My family takes a lot of my time during the holidays, so they haven't allowed me time to write. I also cannot say how much I loved all the lovely reviews I received over the last chapter. I know this doesn't have any Delena, but I hope you like my first foray into Caroline's POV. Please tell me how I do, because I've never done any POV other than Damon or Elena. I really wanted to get it right. **

**Also, a big thank you to Cher Sue for helping me through this chapter, best sounding board ever! I hope you all enjoy.**

Shoes, party planning and my pick of the future GQ models on the football team is all that anyone sees when they look at high strung little Caroline. What people don't see, what misses the attention of the envious, coveting masses, is how much work it takes to be like me. Seriously, a lesser woman, one without my impeccable organizational structure, would have had one of those notorious downward spirals that I read about in Us Weekly and People magazine.

Not that the national chains would care about my personal story or whether I go berserk over the bone headed minions I'm forced to command. But in our local version of trashy tabloids, the Mystic Falls Courier, I'd be front page news. If you ever need to know what counts as news in a small town when our 'animal attack' quota for the month hasn't been met, just imagine a personal rip off of Star magazine with all the same dirt, but the added benefit of reading about people you'd bump into and silently judge while placing a to go order at the Grille. And I can just see my front page debut now, _Former_ _Miss Mystic Breaks Down After Flower Arrangement Debacle. _

But as any celebrity will tell you, tabloids never write the whole story, and I doubt any of the hackneyed writers at the local paper could ever truly capture the essence that is _me._ My playful mix of confidence, competence, and vulnerability are just too nuanced for their puny minds to analyze. If only my hectic schedule left time for guilty pleasure reading, I could scan whatever salacious juiciness they've concocted to spice up our small town boredom. But unfortunately, I am currently only on number two of my fourteen point to do list for this very busy Saturday morning. In between my shopping trip for a New Year's Eve Dress, my nail appointment, and a phone conference with my co-chairs for the latest fundraiser, I have to find time for a friendtervention with my woefully misguided bestie.

Judgment of my friends' life paths has never been my style before now. I've always held the title as the understanding one, the friend who will listen without a visit from the morality police. I'm hardly one to cast stones. Hell I've encouraged the majority of naughty behavior in this town, often with near strangers. But somewhere a line has to be drawn, and falling for the eldest asshat Salvatore definitely screams cry for help. And because I consider myself such a good friend, I'm even willing to host Elena's much needed intervention. The planning is already half way finished in my head. I'm picturing a fully catered event, with soft, non-threatening music, and possibly some metal restraints for Elena if we fail to talk any sense into her after the appetizers run out. It is my moral obligation to lock her up and throw away the key if necessary. Surely someone has to get through her surprisingly thick skull, whether that requires a little friendly imprisonment is entirely up to her, because I'll be damned if I let Damon manipulate her mind like he did to me.

Once Tyler explained about Elena's dodgy questions regarding the limits of a vampire sire bond, the pieces of my friend's mystery puzzle all came together. Elena was pushing Stefan away and chasing after Damon, because she didn't have a choice. I feel awful remembering what a hard time I gave her about all this when she's nothing more than a victim. And knowing what Damon's truly capable of makes me worried he's taking full advantage of this recent development. He's probably calculating how fast he can get the Hell out of town before we find a way to break whatever sirebondy spell Elena's under. So clearly a friendship meeting is needed STAT! And what better way to celebrate Elena's inevitable return to reason than with a small soirée. We can fit in some great food and dancing after the speeches about Elena's troubling life path. All that's left to do is phone the caterer and print out the invites.

While I decide on what font I want Elena's secret intervention invites to be typed in, I turn right, into the gas station to fill up my tank, since my friendtervention will likely include many stops around town. Just as I'm about to unscrew my gas cap, Damon's classic Camaro slides smoothly next to the pump behind mine, and I curse whatever God has seen fit to extend the elder Salvatore's presence in my life

From the looks of it, I'm not alone in my hatred of the universe today, because Damon's usual cocky persona is replaced with the universal facial expression for fuck my life. As I prepare whatever prickly response Damon so richly deserves, I start to notice troubling signs as I peer into the recently washed Camaro. I put my years of watching Castle to good use as I analyze all the clues hidden in plain sight. A bag is packed in the back seat, with what looks like a month's worth of clothes; a map is sprawled out in the passenger's side, and he's filling up on gas, despite having half a tank left. The wheels start spinning until the metaphorical light bulb appears above my head. OMG, Damon's running away with Elena! He's probably picking her up on his way out of town. The bastard, he's leaving before I even get a chance to argue my case.

With a murderous determination, I stalk over towards Damon as he quickly tries to punch in his fuel choices, I assume in an attempt to make a break for it. My purse makes a resounding smack upside Damon's head as I start yelling at him. "I DON'T CARE WHAT DIABOLICAL PLANS YOU HAVE TO WHISK MY FRIEND AWAY TO SOME ROMANTIC DESTINATION WHERE YOU CAN MAKE HER YOUR NEW SLAVE GIRL, BUT I WILL NOT ALLOW IT, ESPECIALLY NOT BEFORE I TALK SOME SENSE INTO HER!"

My abrupt screaming match with Damon has caught the attention of the other, now frightened, patrons of the 7 Eleven, who are quickly shuffling back to their cars and driving away at break neck speed. In a futile attempt to defend himself, Damon attempts to interrupt my little tirade, but I'm too incensed to listen. "How inconsiderate can you be?" I ask rhetorically. "Did you even think about how your migration plans might affect _me_?" His irritated expression tells me that the thought never crossed his mind. "I mean I've got a full scale intervention planned for Elena this week. I might not have sent out the RSVPs yet, but I've already got the caterer on speed dial, so you can't leave until I give my speech and I stuff Elena's face with shrimp puffs."

My full scale meltdown leaves me exhausted and flustered, so it takes a moment before I notice Damon's probing examination of my body. It's not like how the other boys check me out. This is different. Damon skips over all my more desirable attributes, but continues searching me as if on a mission. "What?" I screech out in aggravation.

"Oh, I'm just searching for an off switch," Damon answers glibly, which is clearly a poor decision, since my newfound homicidal rage leaves his life hanging perilously in the balance. Apparently his snarkiness doesn't have an off switch either, because he keeps pushing the limits of my self control with more ill-advised humor. "Also a mute button would work just as well," Damon adds, as he works himself into his own state of fury. "Because if I have to listen to one more speech about poor defenseless Elena, I might throw away my daylight ring and take a fiery sun bath just to be rid of the lot of you once and for all."

Getting right up into his face with my best kick ass smirk, I retort, "Are you trying to tempt me, because God knows I'll try anything to break my friend away from your influence?"

His cocky smirk slips away at my jibe, which is surprising for someone so used to being hated. If it was anyone else, I might regret the harshness of my witty banter. But since I'm determined to stay strong and hold onto my hatred, I plaster on a victorious smile at being the clear winner of this argument.

Damon slams the pump into his precious car, as he struggles not to break the handle in two. His voice is laced with bitterness and contempt as he informs me, "You don't have to worry about Elena's prized virtue any longer, because I'm leaving." And suddenly I see the one clue that I missed in my fact finding mission. I practically want to bang my head against the wall for being so stupid. All the signs are there, the defeated slump of his shoulders, the absence of a genuine smile, and the agony hidden behind a quick wit and deceiving apathy. I was wrong, _me! _This isn't a victorious escape Damon's planning. It's a heartbreaking retreat. He set her free, and an unexpected wave of pity envelops me as I gaze at the unmasked pain on his face.

In an attempt to hide behind my own sarcasm, I beat down any warm and fuzzy sympathy feelings I might have and return to our usual back and forth. "Get bored that quickly?" I question curiously, hoping that my fishing expedition for information proves fruitful, because I refuse to feel bad for Damon Salvatore. That cannot be happening right now.

Since my goal is to retain my position as the President and time keeper of the I Hate Damon Salvatore Club, I'm actually relieved that I'm pissing him off. Anger is a lot easier to deal with than stupid pity feelings. Looking about ready to explode, Damon actually takes a step back and stares passively out towards the street and exhales an uneasy breath in frustration. What surprises me isn't the anger Damon feels at my incessant attacks, because I was expecting that, it's the regret that I see haunting every feature on his face. I'm not sure whether he's second guessing himself for breaking the sire bond, leaving Elena behind, or something else, but there's an unmistakable tragic beauty to his suffering that's almost too painful to gaze upon directly.

Once I've had my fill of tortured silence, I return back towards my car, not wanting this moment to get more touchy feely than it already is, but Damon's words freeze me in place, almost as if he'd compelled me not to move. "I know I've got a nasty reputation for being a bastard," he freely admits, which is a colossal understatement if ever I heard one, "but it was never like that with her." As if responding to my silent doubt, he continues remorsefully, "It wasn't like you and me."

And in six little words, Damon finally acknowledges the elephant in the room, the unspoken weight of our checkered past relationship. Other than the night of the carnival, we'd never really discussed it before. I never wanted to give him the satisfaction of admitting that he'd hurt me, and he never seemed interested in strolling down memory lane either. It never occurred to me that his former treatment of me ever held even a fleeting place in his thoughts. I just assumed he thought I wasn't worth the trouble, but judging from the uncharacteristic guilt etching its way across his face, I'd say this isn't the first time he's considered this.

His next confession nearly knocks me off my feet, and not just because I chose to wear three inch heels whilst running my errands this morning. It's Damon's sincerity that threatens to topple me over, and that's definitely new. "I'm not any good at this," Damon prefaces awkwardly, which is a look on him that I find pleasantly amusing. "I know you could probably care less about what I have to say, and I'm not even sure it makes a difference now, but for the sake of clearing the books, you should know that I get you hating me. I was shitty to a lot of people when I stormed into town, but you bore the brunt of most of my . . . mood swings. If I thought it would mean something to you after all this time, I'd tell you I was sorry."

My gaze shifts immediately towards the ground. I can barely stand to look at him, because if I did, I'm worried that I'd forgive him. I fear I'd forget about the abuse I suffered at his hands, and I would see only the lost little boy standing before me. And I'm not ready to do that just yet, not until I understand, not until I peer dangerously into the mind that is Damon Salvatore. "Why now?" I interrogate suspiciously. I'm not fully convinced this isn't all some clever act. I am known for being pretty gullible after all. Exhibit A of my poor decision making skills is standing right in front of me, hat in hand. "You've had more than a year to practice that speech," I point out, skeptically, "and you give it to me in between you buying a Slim Jim and refilling on regular unleaded."

He cracks an uneasy smile at my quirky sense of humor, but just as quickly his expression turns dark. Clearly whatever inner demons that Damon's wrestling with are poking him with their pitchforks or pointy devil tails, because something is causing him a lot of pain. Ah, screw it, I give in, finally admitting defeat. I feel bad for the poor bastard. There I said it. Granted not out loud, and certainly not to a certain blue eyed pain in my ass, but only because I'd never live it down. Damon's hand waving in front of my face tells me that all these philosophical ponderings have left me in a distracted state usually reserved for cute shoes and half off sales.

With more left to purge, Damon Salvatore opens up just enough to give me a little looksee around his mangled psyche. "I get it now," he confesses, clearly still troubled, "I know why it was wrong to compel you to forget my more dickish tendencies. The sire bond, it's not so different from compulsion, it's just another way to control someone's mind, and after watching Elena stripped of her free will, of the annoyingly stubborn streak that is somehow endearing, I finally understand how precious it is, a person's right to choose. And I took that from you."

His admittance of fault isn't sarcastic or mean spirited. I don't see an obvious agenda or planned calculation behind his words, and for the first time since we've known each other, I think he's being genuine, not a trait I typically associate with the elder Salvatore. I search his face, hoping to find some trace of insincerity, some shred of doubt to make me distrust Damon's heartfelt apology, but I come up empty. Damon's 'real' face, the one covered behind the sarcasm and the snarkiness is actually uncomfortable when in full display. It feels . . . wrong somehow, like I'm intruding on an inner sanctum, like Batman's cave or something. After breaking into an appreciative smile, I snap out of it quickly.

"I'm not used to you being so . . . nice, could you stop it please, because it's sort of freaking me out, and I'm worried that we're having a moment or something?"

Damon has the decency to laugh; thereby breaking our emotionally charged moment of understanding. Because feeling sorry for Damon is one thing, but actually liking him is just a step too far. These feelings are a slippery slope, and I don't want to be caught actually bonding with him. I do have a reputation as a force to be reckoned with. How else could I instill such fear in the hearts of my fellow high schoolers? I can't have people knowing that I'm going soft, which is why I'm eternally grateful when Damon starts cracking jokes again. He'd never admit it, but I think he secretly is doing it to make me feel better.

In a playful version of his typical asshole mode, he insults me jokingly, trying to break his nice streak that I've suddenly taken issue with. "Your hair looks dryer than the Mojave desert during the summer months. Your shoes are so bright they could be seen from space, and I hate to break it to you honey, but red is really not your color." After he proceeds to mock my entire physical appearance, I fight the urge to laugh at his unfunny sense of humor, and instead opt for a less hurtful back and forth.

"Tsk, tsk," I scold reproachfully, "I knew you were a jackass, but I didn't think you were a liar as well. I just bought a new conditioner, so I know for a fact that my hair glistens like the sun. My shoes happen to be from Marc Jacobs' new collection, so I'm already the envy of every fashion forward woman in town, and let's not lie to ourselves any longer. Red is totally my color."

Damon is cracking up, unashamed by his public display of enjoying my company. In between our trade of kidding insults, I lower my guard just a smidge, and somehow the stupid comes flooding out of my mouth. "I have to say, Salvatore, you've really surprised me, a trait all the bad boys in my life seem to have adopted."

An awkward pause ensues as Damon tries to put two and two together. "Wait, what?" He asks in confusion, since apparently he thinks he's the only charming miscreant in town.

"Nothing, nothing at all," I cover up sloppily. Damon's probing gaze tells me that he sees right through my pathetic lie, and his amused grin lets me know just how much he's enjoying watching me squirm. Someone really needs to remind me why I haven't staked him already. I am a Forbes after all, so vampire slaying is practically in my blood.

But before I go all Buffy 2.0 on his ass, I settle for smacking him again with my purse. Not that my collection of beauty products and miniaturized hair brushes would inflict much harm, but at least it gets my point across. "I may have confusing boy problems," I defend passionately, "But at least I'm not a dumbass." After an expected eye roll from Damon, I continue on in my little rant. "You got the girl," I remind him. "You got everything you ever wanted, and you're still running away. So ask yourself, who's the idiot between the two of us? I'm not sure what you find so scary. My stern disapproval isn't that frightening, because it's never stopped you before? You won, Damon, so why can't you see that?"

And somewhere during my little tirade, the lighthearted nature of our insults disappears, and what replaces it is our familiar air of contempt. I'm pissed that he's being an idiot, and he can't stand that I'm right. Although apparently I'm missing the bigger picture, and since we're in a sharing mood today, Damon feels compelled to set me straight. "That's what people don't understand," Damon corrects disdainfully. "Elena's love isn't a prize to be won. It's a gift to be given, and its one I won't accept if it's not of her own free will."

With a few moments of sincerity, my former nemesis has me practically in a puddle on the grungy gasoline stained pavement. I mean there's only so much will power a girl has, before she begrudgingly hands in her resignation as President of the I Hate Damon Salvatore Club. Without meaning to, I curse out loud, sharing my frustrations with the world. "Damn it," I swear in aggravation, unhappy that my resolve is breaking. My peculiar behavior earns me an eye raise from Damon, who thinks that I've probably lost my mind.

"What's the matter Blondie," Damon questions with faux concern, "Are you late for a hair appointment or something?"

"Nooo," I answer, pissed off at his misconception that all I think about is hair and clothes. "I'm late for a nail appointment thank you very much, but that's neither here nor there. I was going to say, before your rude assumptions nearly made me change my mind, that I get it," I declare cryptically. "This is not easy for me to admit, and I assure you that I've fought against this every step of the way, but I see how she could love you."

Damon's eyes soften at the sentiment, and whether he says it or not, I can tell that he appreciates that at least one person can understand. Since I doubt another moment of complete honesty will ever come again, I poke and prod Damon a little further. "This was real for you, wasn't it?"

He gives an almost imperceptible nod of his head and replies, "For ME, yeah, it was real." I pick up on the not so subtle implication of what he's saying. Stefan and I were pretty quick to rush to judgment on what this bond truly meant. I never considered what this would do to Damon, how this was hurting _him._ "Why couldn't we ever talk like this before?" I question regretfully, thinking about all the misunderstandings that have kept Damon and I in a perpetual battle of wills.

He indulges me a bit longer and answers, "The only reason that we're talking like this now is because I'm heading several hundred miles away, so I won't have to deal with the embarrassment when you inevitably tell everyone about my mushy gushy center."

I pretend to be annoyed with him, because that's practically our thing now, but deep down I like getting to know more about Damon's mushy gushy center. It almost makes him seem passably human. And the fact that he knows me well enough to realize that this secret is too good to keep to myself, speaks volumes about our new level of understanding. He's lucky I haven't been live tweeting this revealing convo.

The sound of a honking horn alerts us to the growing line for the only two gas pumps in town that we are currently hogging. Damon moves silently back towards his side of the gas pump and replaces his cap, not knowing the proper social etiquette for saying goodbye. Not that I'm expecting a hug or anything, but he can't just leave without saying anything. He's not actually James Dean, and the mysterious, cocky, misanthrope thing has long since lost its appeal.

A sudden impulse grabs hold as Damon continues to pretend like he's not leaving forever. "Will you at least tell me where you're going?" I ask in concern. If leaving behind the woman he loves turns out to be a bad idea, it wouldn't hurt to know which hemisphere of the globe to send the search teams.

Fortunately, Damon doesn't fight too hard against me. I think after the past month of emotional roller coasters, he's just too tired to lie anymore. "The Big Easy," he answers without a struggle. "I might be a masochist, but that doesn't mean that I'm a quitter. There could be some witchy descendants that can help me with my little sire bond problem. There's a girl named Charlotte who had _similar_ issues," he informs me cryptically, no longer in a sharing mood. But his streak of surprising sincerity isn't over just yet as he tells me, "Take care of yourself, Barbie."

He actually seems to mean it, so I ignore his infuriating nickname. "You too," I offer graciously.

And just when I think he'll allow me to have the last word, he adds, "Be sure to take care of our girl."

I crack a smile and with an unfortunate wave, I bid goodbye to a man I never truly knew until now. My whole world is being turned topsy turvy. Since when do bad boys make the best boyfriends? Where was I when that memo was sent? I try not to scroll through my list of contacts, because I'm worried that I might make a rash emotional decision of my own, and the last thing I need is one more annoyingly charming man in my life.

When my phone rings, I tramp down the hope that it's Klaus on the other end of the line. Instead all I hear is the sound of choking sobs from my best friend. Apparently Elena's not taking Damon's separation as well as one might hope. So in hindsight, this maybe wasn't one of Damon's better ideas. And because the universe must hate Damon and Elena, Damon's Camaro is long since gone. I didn't even get a chance to say I told you so. Add that to the list of one more missed opportunity. So now I have to add number fifteen to my to do list. Keeping Elena from spiraling down should take all day. If anyone's going to make a debut in the gossip section of the Mystic Falls Courier, it's going to be me. It's one of my life goals, and I am nothing if not ambitious.

**As Always Please Read and Review**


	5. Chapter 5

**I can let out a sigh of relief at the fact that this chapter is over, and surprisingly not super late. This will once again be a Caroline chapter, because I am channeling her at the moment. I have the sudden urge to plan things and color coordinate my outfits. It is truly a sickness. **

**I cannot say enough how grateful I am for the people who reviewed last chapter, because it didn't have Delena in it, so I know how difficult it can be to become invested in those chapters. While this one is Damon free, *cue tears in the eyes* I do promise it offers a less bleak and depressing forward movement. **

**Thanks to my sounding board, Cher Sue, without whom, this chapter might have been an extra week late. BTW, I think I'm injured from all your frequent internet kicking. *Shake my head at Cher's violent streak***

**Okay onto the chapter, I hope you all enjoy.**

Three stoplights, two near misses with pedestrians, and one ticket happy police officer are all that separate me from fulfilling my best friend duties as encouraging shoulder to cry on. And judging by the anguished sobs in Elena's quite literal cry for help, this emotional rollercoaster is going to need more than a pint of Chunky Monkey and a rewatching of Sleepless in Seattle. So in my haste, I might've broken a law, or 12, in trying to make better time. But I always saw speed limits as more of suggestions than actual hard and fast rules, so I try to forget the terrified screams of the uppity residents of Mystic Falls, who have apparently never seen someone drive on the sidewalk to navigate around traffic. What babies.

When my car finally screeches to a stop in front of the boardinghouse, I'm surprised that my super hearing barely detects a whimper from inside. Elena was testing her lung capacity with how loud she was blubbering over the phone, so the silence makes me question whether I'm even looking in the right place, but the quiet shuffling of bed sheets helps me zero in on her location. The sight greeting me on Damon's bed takes my breath away. Elena's legs are pulled up to her chest as she sits wordlessly on top of his comforter, clutching some torn black piece of fabric, which I assume was once Damon's shirt. Now I've been tortured, you know a lot, and put through the emotional ringer by two out of three of Elena's exes, but never before have I seen such tragic devastation.

That's what most people forget once they leave the hormonal haze of adolescence behind. They forget the pain of being young, and start to write off teenage feelings as inconsequential and immature, like we know nothing of suffering. This is, of course, complete nonsense, because anyone with a TV or internet access has at least _witnessed_ their fair share of human suffering. I mean ten minutes of watching the Maury Show is enough to convince anyone that mankind is really screwed up, to say nothing of the 24 hour, we only report really depressing stuff, news stations. So believe me I know about pain.

As an empathetic spokesperson for the Mystic Falls Volunteer Society, I have thrown together whole events to raise money for one tragic disaster after another. I once organized an entire volunteer trip around cleaning up the oil spill on the Gulf coast, using only a PowerPoint presentation filled with pictures of sad oil soaked duckies. One of whom I even named Mr. Ducky, despite everyone's fervent protests that ducks don't swim in the ocean. This came from people who clearly knew nothing about PR, so I ignored them, and started the whole senior class chanting Justice for Mr. Ducky. The depressing Sarah McLachlan music didn't hurt either in tugging on the heart strings. So not only have I seen suffering, but I've exploited it for the greater good, as any true humanitarian would.

Unfortunately none of my organizational or chanting skills can help Elena out of the funk that she's currently in. Her first words since my silent entrance into the room are like a dagger to the heart and instantly made me want to hug a puppy to make myself feel better. "I was crying for a while," she remarks distantly, her eyes vacant and deadened by despair, "but I think I just ran out of tears, because my face is dry again."

Before she even finishes her thought, my arms are wrapped tightly around her, and I'm glad that we're both vampires, because breathing might have been an issue with how hard I'm squeezing her. She doesn't respond, her arms lay still at her side, and her voice is the only thing reminding me that my friend is still in there somewhere. "There's something wrong with me, Caroline," Elena whimpers into my shoulder. "I'm losing my mind. Here I am a complete mess, and I can't even tell you why."

It's then that it hits me, like a two ton car running me over, repeatedly. Elena doesn't remember. She doesn't remember Damon. She doesn't remember that he left her. And she most certainly doesn't remember why she has all the right in the world to be crying. Whatever sire bondey magic Damon worked on her mind, is keeping her from understanding why she's so upset. It's like her heart feels the pain, but her brain isn't letting her dwell on why.

It's possible that this is a little, or a lot my fault, and I'm determined to fix it. I've coached Elena through the worst moments of her life. She rested her head on my shoulder as they buried her parents. I'm the one who brought over a delicious cookie bouquet after Stefan took off to play ripper on his and Klaus' murderous tour of the eastern coast. And I was there when she almost got all murdery with April Young. Elena Gilbert is no quitter, and neither am I. So making Elena smile again is my new mission in life.

Deciding that blunt and forceful is the way to go, I dive right in. "I've never seen you this way," I remark miserably, trying to find the words to heal my broken friend. "You are Elena Gilbert. You have survived vampire wars, dead parents, and psychotic ex-boyfriends. I refuse to believe that you'll be broken by some stupid boy."

Just as I ponder the stupidity of my previous statement, Elena leans up off my shoulder, and raises her eyebrows in suspicion. "What boy?" She asks in a harsh accusation. This is when I deeply regret that my mother never sprung for those summer acting lessons, because I am a completely hopeless liar.

"No boy, who said anything about a boy? You must be delirious sweetie," I lie terribly. "Maybe you're dehydrated. You need some water, or blood. I'll go get you both," I declare in my best mothering tone.

Before I make it to the door, my best friend's sharp tone freezes me in my tracks. "Stop, sit, and quit lying to me," Elena orders in quick succession. "What aren't you telling me?" Elena interrogates, with all the scary intimidation of Jack Bauer off 24. "What could be so wrong with me that you're afraid to say it out loud?" Elena asks in desperation, fearful that I'm keeping some tragic secret from her, which I suppose I sort of am. And now the vulnerable puppy dog eyes have replaced her frightening exterior, and I'm helpless to grant her every wish. I see now why all the boys are tripping over themselves to please her. How can you say no to that face, with those eyes?

"There's absolutely _nothing_ wrong with you," I assure her confidently. "This isn't your fault . . . maybe it isn't anybody's fault," I realize with a heavy sigh. "I shouldn't be here for this," I announce, as my mind wanders to a certain raven haired Salvatore who would know just what to say to make her laugh. "I might fancy myself an amateur shrink, but this is way above my psychiatric abilities," I admit with a touch of humility. Boy problems I can handle, creepy blood magic that leaves you heartbroken, not so much.

"Why won't you just tell me?" Elena presses further, testing the limits of my self control. I'm a blabber mouth by nature, and the heartfelt pleas aren't helping me any.

"It wouldn't make it better," I try to explain. "You might be lost and confused right now, but if I told you the whole story, it would saddle you with more guilt and baggage than you have ever felt before. And I don't want that for you," I declare sympathetically.

Elena's dead eyes come alive again, this time with indignation, anger, and a bit of defiance. "And you think the alternative is any better?" She questions with righteous fury. "I've been dumped, kidnapped, and I've watched my loved ones die, but I have never felt so empty, so lonely. You're my best friend. I know you love me, and will always be here for me, but there's this void now, a hole, that something, or _someone_ used to fill. And no amount of inspirational speeches is going to change that. I'm worried I can't be fixed, Caroline."

My confidence takes a rough blow at my Elena's defeatist attitude. I struggle to remember a time when I used to be good at this, but the sadness on Elena's face just reminds me what an epic failure my cheer up plans have been. And just in case I have a shrivel of happy feeling left in my body, Elena succeeds in crushing it into a fine powder. "You want to know what the worst part about all of this is," Elena asks rhetorically, and I emotionally prepare myself for the ensuing blow. "When I try to remember, when I try to put the pieces together, there's this brick wall, this block in my head that I can't break through. That's what's driving me mad."

Her description reminds me of the effects of compulsion. Damon was right, they are awfully similar. I felt the same way after Damon and I 'ended things' and Bonnie kept pestering me about how I got those marks on my neck, or why I couldn't remember. My heart breaks for Elena as her mind continually comes up blank, searching for answers she can't possibly find. "He told you to forget him," I whisper out loud. And with difficult clarity, I realize that this is at least partially my fault. Stefan and I were so certain that the sire bond was controlling Elena that we never stopped to think how breaking it would unfairly warp her mind.

But some piece of this still doesn't make sense. "What are you doing in this room Elena?" I ask gently, not wanting to push her too far, because my outfit was not meant for salty tear stains. My question throws her for a loop as she scans her mind for an answer. If she doesn't remember that this is Damon's room, why would she seek refuge here? Why is she clutching his shirt?

"I can't give you an answer," she replies bleakly, "Not a rational one anyway. All I can tell you is how I feel, and I _feel_ like I'm supposed to be here, like I'm meant to or something. This room, it smells familiar, and comforting, it smells like home." She wipes away a stray tear that falls across her cheek. "You must think I'm a mental patient," she responds self-deprecatingly.

"No," I answer, staring guiltily at my feet. "What you're saying makes perfect sense," I confess with a twinge of sadness. Elena's eyes light up at my inexplicable understanding of her messed up situation, and it only makes me feel worse. Before I know what's happening, I'm the one that's crying, and Elena is comforting _me_.

In an attempt to lighten the mood, she jokes, "I'm supposed to be the only emotional basket case in this house. I totally called dibs." The playful humor does lift my spirits, but does little to silence my guilt.

"I think I made a mistake," I confess, regretfully, my gaze cast downward, not wanting to see the pity in Elena's eyes that I know I don't deserve. "I didn't know if I should tell you. I thought I was doing the right thing, but I can't let you go on like this. The reason that you're so sad is because Da . . ."

"Caroline," a disapproving voice reprimands me from across the room. I don't need to lift my head up to recognize the sound of Stefan's judgmental tone. "There's no need to confuse Elena more than she already is," he warns me reproachfully.

"Stefan she needs to hear this," I argue defiantly, but my notorious persuasion skills seem to be on the fritz today.

"No," Stefan disagrees, in a tone usually reserved for disobedient children, "What Elena _needs_ is rest. She's had enough strain on her mind lately, no reason to add to it."

While I might think he's full of it, I can't help but admit that my efforts haven't produced stellar results, so I wait to see if Stefan's brand of broody relief can do any better. He moves naturally to Elena's side as he wraps his arms across her back and promises that everything will be okay. I start to think that his plan is actually working, until Elena abruptly pushes him away, holding him at arm's length, refusing any attempts to comfort or coddle her. "You need to leave," Elena orders forcefully, and I briefly wonder if Stefan whispered something to offend Elena that my vampire hearing didn't pick up. Because one thing's for certain, Elena looks pissed.

As Stefan tries to salvage the situation, Elena inches farther and farther away, almost falling off Damon's king sized bed at one point. "You're confused," Stefan suggests, desperately, trying to find any excuse for Elena's blatant rejection, especially without a magical sire bond to fall back on. "Your emotions are all mixed up, but I'm here, and I won't leave you while you're upset."

Elena stands for the first time since I arrived and calmly walks over to Stefan before proclaiming, "Right now, _you're_ the reason that I'm upset, so I need you to go, before I go off the deep end and Caroline has to _physically_ restrain me."

Taken aback by a viciousness that is so rarely unleashed onto Stefan, he refuses to cede his ground so easily, and remains still, with unwavering boldness. "Elena, if I've crossed a line, just tell me what I've done and I'll fix it."

Elena eyes him warily, as both of my friends forget my presence entirely. "You were wrong," she announces with certainty. "You said my feelings were confused, but they're not. My mind might be a twisted labyrinth right now, but what I _feel_, that's clear as day. So I _feel_ angry, and hurt, and I can't shake this sensation, this idea, that you did something that hurt me. I don't know what, and I'm not sure that I care, but somehow this is all your fault," Elena declares with malice in her heart. "I was happy. I remember being happy, then suddenly it all went away."

"That wasn't _real_," Stefan swears, with steadfast conviction. I almost envy his certainty, because mine can't help but waiver. "What you felt, what you think you felt, it was an illusion. _It wasn't real_," he utters once more for effect. "Why can't you see that?" Stefan questions despairingly.

Elena looks torn, between the rationality of Stefan's words, and whatever her heart is telling her is true. "It is real," she says to herself, scarcely even a whisper. When Stefan ignores her claims, she gets louder. "IT IS REAL," she shouts with absolute faith. And like the flick of a switch something snaps, the effect so sudden and monumental, I almost expect a loud gong to sound or a starting pistol to fire. "I love him," Elena breathes out in relief. She pauses dramatically as if trying to solve a tricky math problem. Elena doesn't have all the parts of the puzzle just yet, but she seems hot on its trail. "I'm in love," she repeats, as she tests out the words on her tongue. "And _you_ sent him away," she accuses bitterly, causing Stefan to flinch with unexpected guilt.

She spins around in circles, as if searching for something that she's simply misplaced, like her keys or her cell phone charger. "We slept here together," she recalls, now ignoring Stefan's shocked and horrified expression at her revelation. "He wore this shirt." Elena remembers, clutching the torn fabric in her grasp. And just like a race horse, she's off and speeding away without a word. Next time we catch up to her, she's holding Damon's prized bourbon, cradling it like you would a teddy bear. "He drank this alcohol," she replies weakly, lost in the pain of what was. "And that spot right there," she points out excitedly towards an end table that I swear used to have a lamp on it. "That's where he told me to clean up my mess after sex." Her face almost breaking out into a reverent smile at the memory. "I remember thinking it was really weird and a bit crazy, but also pretty cute."

Even I have to smirk at the idea that sexy Damon Salvatore had a single coherent thought after sex, and then I remember how OCD he could be, and am not at all surprised. After a hyperactive trip down memory lane, Elena finally settles down. Her up and down emotional frenzy resembles that of a child coming off a sugar high. Elena steadily sits on the couch, running through what little she does remember, and trying to find a reasonable explanation amidst all the conflicting thoughts.

As Stefan tests his luck again, trying to inch closer to Elena, her head snaps up as she questions her ex with a distrusting glare. "Did you do this to me?" She asks with a fearful disdain.

"What?" Stefan replies, offended at the implication. "Of course not!"

Obviously unconvinced, she scoots further away. I can't help feeling bad at the fall of Stefan's face as she repeatedly rejects him in every way imaginable. "Someone messed with my mind, and this feels a lot like compulsion. So what did you ask your good buddy Klaus to make me forget?"

"Do you really think me capable of that?" Stefan questions in disbelief. His pain far and above his usual _Hey It's Tuesday_ look. Elena studies him as she tries to decide what to believe.

"Right now I have no idea what you're capable of," Elena admits, unhappy at how little she can trust a man I once called her soul mate. Unfortunately Stefan isn't helping matters as he gains more and more defensive and angry at Elena's lack of faith.

"I AM TRYING HERE," Stefan bellows out in frustration. "I'm trying to be the good guy, but I don't understand what happened to you, what happened to us. One second we were in love, and talking about spending eternity together, and the next you're declaring your feelings for somebody else. _I_ didn't compel you. _I_ didn't make him do this. _Damon_ decided it was the right thing to do, and just because I might've helped that realization along, doesn't make it my fault. That is not on me."

Stefan is so caught up in his anger and aggravation at the current situation, that he doesn't see the change spread across Elena's face at just one word. He doesn't notice her moment of epiphany. Once Damon's name is spoken aloud, Elena's changed.

"Damon," Elena repeats with glee. "I'm in love with Damon," she states, relieved and ecstatic to finally have some answers. "It's still fuzzy in my head, but I remember meeting him, and fighting with him, and loving him. That part I remember most of all."

"That's impossible," Stefan repeats, as if he's becoming an endlessly broken record. "If Damon did what he was supposed to, you shouldn't be able to remember." I do an internal face palm at Stefan's poor choice of points to focus on.

"Oh, and you'd like that wouldn't you?" Elena responds cattily, dropping all pretense of being civil. "In case I haven't said it, I also remember a little tidbit about you guilt tripping Damon into leaving, so don't think you're off the hook for that one."

Just as they appear ready to rip each other's heads off, I swoop in to act as referee. "Before this becomes a version of vampire gladiators, how about we address this problem logically and if possible without the spilling of each other's blood."

"Fine," they both angrily agree, as I struggle to maintain this truce with duck tape and whatever other handy tools I have thrown into my multi-functional purse. "Maybe we're thinking about this the wrong way," I propose. "Before Damon left, he compared the sire bond to compulsion, so it's just mind control," I state, as Stefan and Elena nod along to my explanation. "That must mean that breaking the sire bond, Damon ordering you to forget him is mind control too, right?" I ask, without any signs of dissent from my captive audience. "We've seen firsthand that people can overcome compulsion, so it makes sense that they can, with the right motivation, break through the sire bond," I hypothesize proudly, grateful for being the only person thinking with their brain around here.

"What's the right motivation?" Stefan questions, warily, not anxious for an answer he's pretty sure he doesn't want.

"Love," Elena responds, not even hesitating, or trying to lessen the blow to protect Stefan's feelings. "The only time you ever found a way around Klaus' compulsion was because of love. It's the only thing stronger than forced loyalty."

"Her love for Damon," I echo quietly. "Her desire to be with him is what broke the bond," I agree delicately, not wanting to pour any more salt into Stefan's gaping emotional wound. "I'm sorry Stefan," I declare sincerely, "But this is all real. Elena's not sired anymore. She's not confused. She's just in love."

Stefan stares back at me, stunned by my sudden 180, since I was firmly on his side all of two hours ago. The betrayal on his face is a sight I won't soon forget. All I did was state the truth, and even that made me feel guilty.

"She can't love him," Stefan swears, clinging to a desperate form of denial. "She once told me she hated him. Elena called him a self-serving psychopath with no redeeming qualities. He tried to murder her brother, Bonnie, even _you,_" Stefan recites as he points helplessly to me, hoping for some backup. "I don't understand how she could pretend all that stuff never happened. Tell me Elena," he addresses her once more, "Is my brother really _that good_ in bed?"

A resounding crack echoes throughout the halls of the boardinghouse, as Stefan tries to realign his broken jaw. You gotta give the girl credit. Elena has one Hell of a right hook. It is probably for the best that she got a quick swing in, or else I might've felt compelled to intervene, and I can't help feeling like Stefan deserved that punch. Elena's fiery temper is what reminds me that these two need constant supervision, like toddlers arguing over the same toy.

"How can you do that?" Elena cries out in anger, and the painful tension makes me feel like an intruder, or at least a really uncomfortable chaperone/body guard. "How can you stand there and act like he's the only one who's done wrong, like you have any right to cast stones. Do you honestly think that you're any better than him?" Stefan's shameful silence provides Elena all the answers she needs. "You're not, Stefan, and you know it too. You just wish you were."

Bitterness fills my eternally lost and broken friend as he replies back. "Don't act like he hasn't said much worse about me," Stefan contends, clasping at straws. "I can only imagine the stories he's told you."

"He never did," Elena answers softly, "not once." Her voice filled with more pity than anything else. "Sure at first when he was caught up with Katherine, but once his diabolical master plan fell through, I'm not sure he ever uttered a single word against you. If anything, Damon was your greatest champion. He convinced me to have faith in you, when you absolutely didn't deserve it."

"You're lying," Stefan argues, barely sounding believable to his own ears, let alone anyone else's. "He couldn't of," Stefan whimpers, crushed more by this revelation than he was by Damon and Elena having sex, which I didn't think was physically possible.

"You want to know something really awful?" Elena asks distantly, not waiting for Stefan's consent or denial. "Damon tried to fix our relationship. When I didn't trust you after conspiring with Klaus, he told me that everything you were doing, you were doing for me. When you threatened to drive me off Wickery Bridge, he defended you, said we needed you to be the villain. And the night you and Damon rescued me from Elijah, he told me that he didn't deserve me, but that you did. At every opportunity he had to take advantage of me, he took the high road. He stood up for you, felt guilty for hurting you, and he loved you, more than I think you know. But you are so caught up in this idea of who you thought he was, that you can't see him for who he is, and for that, if nothing else, I do feel sorry for you."

The sound of our unnecessary breathing is all that fills the room as we remain in a perpetual standoff. The weight of all the fights, emotions, and pain that's filled this house is enough to choke us all to death. Awkward tension is not the way that I'd choose to leave this world, so I'm grateful when Elena breaks the stalemate. She reaches for her purse, thrown carelessly on the couch, and chooses her parting words carefully. "I'm going after him," Elena announces, without a hint of guilt or doubt in her mind. "So you go ahead and you try to stop me," she challenges, daringly.

Stefan makes no grand gestures or angry threats, all he's left with are words, from moments long past. "You said you never stopped loving me," he reminds her miserably, haunted by the perceived falseness of her words.

Elena pauses, the anger and resentment melting away as she replies with a wistful smile. "I never did," she promises genuinely. Her sincerity makes it difficult, for even Stefan, to doubt the truth in her words. "But loving someone and being right for them are two different things. I want you to be happy," she swears. "I want you to find someone who can be all the things that I can't. Because I can't love you like I love him, and that is something I cannot and would not change. You might not see it sometimes, but you're not a bad person. I just don't like what loving me turns you into. One day you'll meet someone, and you'll see that letting me go was the best thing that ever happened to you."

Not looking all that convinced, Stefan at least feigns acceptance, or maybe silently toys with the faint hope that Elena might be right about this being for the best. In full problem solving mode, Elena is rifling through her bag in search for her phone. After it goes to Damon's voicemail for the fourth time, I offer to call him myself, just in case he's being aggravatingly selfless and dodging her calls. Once my text about Elena being in terrible danger goes unanswered, it's pretty much a foregone conclusion that Damon's ditched his phone, clever bastard.

As I struggle to be moderately helpful, I blurt out, "New Orleans." This earns me the attention of my two confused friends, who probably think I've acquired a case of turrets. "I ran into him before he left," I explain, plugging in the plot holes of my story. "He said he was going to New Orleans to find some witch that he thought might know something. Damon told me some girl named Charlotte that he used to know had the same problem."

Elena smiles appreciatively at me for not judging her for going after him. But her gratitude doesn't stop her from realizing certain logistical issues. "New Orleans has hundreds of thousands of people living there, and that doesn't even include the tourists. How the Hell am I going to find him?"

"There's a bar," Stefan answers unexpectedly, "It's near Baker Street and my brother used to frequent it in the forties. I seem to remember a girl named Charlotte. If it's the same girl, you might find him there." I beam with pride at the resurgent return of good Stefan. I nearly forgot how much I'd missed him. Sadly, after the rather epic blowout, Elena remains skeptical of Stefan's sign of good faith.

"Suddenly you're helping now?" She asks, but her question sounds more like an accusation or an interrogation.

Stefan doesn't react defensively, instead he chooses to moderate his tone, and keep from sparking another argument. "If what you said is true," he prefaces, "if Damon stood up for me, I figure I owe it to him to bring his ass back here."

"Great attitude," I chime in. "You three can yell about your love triangle drama once we get back. So whose car are we taking?"

"What?" Elena and Stefan both shout in horror.

"Well, Elena obviously needs _me_ there for emotional support, and _you're_ the only one who knows your way around New Orleans, so I'd say its road trip time. That is if you both really _want_ to bring Damon home," I guilt trip perfectly. Neither one suspects that this is all a clever ruse to help those idiots repair, or in their case create, their future friendship, which I predict will be _epic_. So now all the items on my previous to do list will have to be side lined. New plan: find Damon, bring him home, try not to vomit when Damon and Elena make kissy faces in the back seat, and somehow convince Stefan and Elena that they would make fabulous besties. If I'm going to form my own diabolically masterful plan, it sure as Hell is going to be ambitious.

"So who's ready for the most awkward road trip ever?" I cheer in my best peppy voice, yet surprisingly hear crickets. "Well I'm basically kidnapping you both, so that question was rhetorical." Stefan and Elena share a frightened look at my craziness, which means my plan is already working. Score one for all the supposed 'dumb blondes' out there. Someone has to be their poster girl, and if I can salvage this twisted Salvatore tug of war, I'll be a shoe in for the Nobel Peace Prize. I could put an end to all those hair color intolerant jokes, and I pat myself on the back for being such a do gooder. As we drive further and further away from the boardinghouse, Stefan and Elena are wearing the same Fuck My Life expression that I saw on Damon earlier today. "That is the second time someone's looked at me like that since this morning," I state cheerfully, "must be a coincidence." Stefan and Elena try to stifle their laughter as I rock out to _You've Got a Friend in Me._ How people underestimate my brilliance, I will never know.

**As Always Please Read and Review**


	6. Chapter 6

**Phew, I can't believe this chapter is done. It is my longest one to date, and the second half was torture to write, because my muse apparently calls it quits after 4,000 words. I'm sorry this update comes on TVD day, because I know we all have other things on our minds, but hopefully some of you can distract yourself before the show, or take a relaxation/breath after it. **

**I did want to announce that I was dedicating this chapter to my friend Sana (Don't Tear Me Down). Here's hoping this will prove the inspiration you need to finish your next chapter of Chasing Fire. **

**And as always a thank you to my wonderful sounding board Cher Sue for listening to my talk about this chapter, and the next story I have in the works. And a thank you to all the people who read and reviewed last chapter. I know it's been hard without a Damon fix the last two chapters, so I give you a split POV chapter, half with Elena and half with Damon. I hope you all enjoy.**

I'm in Hell, I repeat to myself for the 49th time in the past hour. Either Caroline is torturing me using some new 'enhanced interrogation' techniques she no doubt pioneered, or she is completely oblivious to the torment that she's putting me through. I mean most people would think I had suffered enough after Damon ordered me to forget him and then promptly sped across state lines without leaving so much as a forwarding address. A reasonable person would consider that as punishment enough, but now I'm forced to endure endless hours in the car with my overly perky best friend, who acts as a backup singer to every song on her playlist, and my sulky ex-boyfriend, who's done nothing but move his eyebrows up and down since we settled into the back seat. To summarize, I'm considering flinging myself from the speeding car, and just making a vamp run for it all the way to New Orleans.

Sadly I remind myself that Stefan is the only one who knows the location of this mystery bar where Damon might be visiting, and I'm pretty sure Caroline would track me down anyhow. Frankly my BFF frightens me far too much to risk incurring her wrath, so I decide to stay put for the time being. As Caroline is finishing, the closing chorus for _You've Got a Friend in Me_, which Stefan and I have been subjected to five times in four hours, I impatiently tap my friend on the shoulder, pulling her out of her rock star daze.

"Remind me again why Stefan or I can't sit in the front seat?" I question suspiciously. While I'm not anxious to be closer to the blaring sound of music, this ride might be a lot less awkward if I wasn't sharing the backseat with Mr. Broods a Lot.

Caroline grows increasingly cagey at my request, and if she wasn't a vampire, I swear she'd be sweating bullets right about now. "There isn't any space up front," she stutters nervously. "I have my overnight bag, my makeup, all my hair products, and a straightener. I don't have room for passengers up here."

While I seriously doubt that Caroline's reluctance to give up the coveted seat has anything to do with proximity to styling equipment, I take notice of the determined look on her face, and realize I'd have to pry that spot from her cold, dead, well-manicured hands. Despite being unsuccessful in escaping the Fun Free Backseat, at least the song is finally changing, and what a shocker, another song with the word 'friend' in the title.

I have no idea how my resourceful BFF managed to burn a road trip playlist in between Stefan and I retrieving an extra change of clothes, and Stefan searching high and low for his missing hair gel, but they certainly all have a consistent theme. In order to break up the boredom, I grab my phone from my pocket and start typing out a message. "I think Caroline is trying to tell us something through subliminal messaging," I write out on the sly. Stefan eyes me curiously, when his phone buzzes and the screen lights up with my text. He covertly checks it, guessing that my intent is to talk without the prying ears of one Caroline Forbes.

Stefan actually laughs out loud as he reads my message, until he remembers that he's not supposed to blow our cover and immediately reverts to his stoic broody face. I smile at the speedy turnaround of Stefan's mood, but try to keep a straight face, a feat made exceedingly harder when I see Stefan's reply. "To Hell with the sire bond, it's Caroline that really controls us all. She once convinced me that she was having an emergency at her house, and after I sped over there, Caroline explained how she was worried that her new shoes clashed with her outfit, and she needed a man's opinion. I'm 163 years old, and I felt powerless to leave, as she tried on 16 pairs of shoes, 4 dresses, and 13 shirt and pants combos."

Caroline is starring daggers at us from the rear view window, and for a second I worry that she can actually read minds. Stefan and I stop breathing for a solid mile before we're brave enough to resume our secret texting. "That's nothing, once Caroline held her 14th birthday at the mall, we arrived when it opened at 10 a.m., and the nice security guard had to forcibly escort us out after the stores had clearly closed for the night. I think her goal is that you and I will feel compelled to bond, because Caroline's music choices told us to," I write back playfully.

"Then I think we should be pretty worried," Stefan texts back cryptically. "We're in exile in the backseat, having our first pleasant conversation in a week. She might be Jedi mind tricking us."

This time I can't help it. Stefan making a joke is historic enough, but a good one, is enough to call up the Vatican and declare a miracle has occurred. I bust out laughing, as Stefan holds a friendly hand to my face, trying to stifle the noise. His efforts are of course in vain, as Caroline glances back towards us, and wears a smug, I told you so smile. Stefan stares at me, in concern as he sees an evil grin gracing my face when I come up with a brilliant plan.

"The only way she'll leave us alone is if her plan appears to be working?" I text back with vamp speed, nearly crushing the fragile phone.

"Yeah, so?" Stefan replies, clearly not picking up on my brilliant strategy.

"I've got a plan, so WHATEVER happens, follow my lead."

Stefan appears genuinely frightened at whatever I have up my sleeve, especially once he sees my emphasis on the word 'whatever,' but he hesitantly nods in agreement.

The next song on Caroline's greatest friendship hits of the past century is going to be _Lean on Me_. I know, because we've gone through the same 15 songs on repeat ever since we started driving. I'm pretty sure I could recite all the lyrics on command to _Gift of a Friend, I'll Stand by You, Thank You for Being a Friend, _and _We're All in This Together._ In fact, I would bet my life on it. Luckily this newfound skill can only help me, because when the lyrics start to play, I throw a friendly arm around Stefan and start singing along, covertly signaling him with my eyes to do the same.

Stefan looks about ready to throw me from the car himself, when it sinks in that he is expected to sing a little car karaoke, but once she sees Caroline's eyes on us, he perks back up, and puts on an impressive display. We sway back and forth as we sing.

_Lean on me, when you're not strong__  
And I'll be your friend__  
I'll help you carry on__  
For it won't be long__  
'Til I'm gonna need__  
Somebody to lean on_

Stefan belts out the lyrics with surprising skill, and I wonder how come he never revealed that he could sing while we were dating. Not that Stefan was ever the greatest sharer when it came to the past, but this seems a pretty big thing to just not mention. As I sit stunned at this recent revelation, Caroline is beaming in the front seat, apparently buying Stefan and I's 'performance art' as entirely genuine. However our embarrassing duet is mercifully broken up by ANOTHER Caroline sanctioned pit stop. This time, she felt it necessary to visit a road side strawberry stand, because apparently the roadside apple booth, tree nut stand, and farmer's market weren't quite enough to satisfy Caroline's sudden need for produce and assorted nuts. Stefan and I share an aggravated eye roll as we contemplate just how much time we've lost chasing Caroline's bizarre whims. I don't care if she says that street vendors have the best products. I'm this close to tag teaming my BFF with Stefan and snatching the car keys away.

In desperate need of an ally, I whisper secretly to Stefan as Caroline haggles over the price of a pound of strawberries. "She's doing this on purpose," I swear, thoroughly convinced this is part of some master plan. "Caroline didn't eat this much fruit when she was alive, and I doubt this recent fascination has anything to do with food."

"This is a setup," Stefan deduces tiredly. "Think about it, the second we find Damon, we're back to awkward conversations and avoiding each other. She sees that we're finally 'bonding,' and she doesn't want us to lose that."

I release of sigh of aggravation, because this sounds like classic Caroline. "I'm not sure whether I want to hug her or hit her. Can we do both?" I ask, only halfway kidding about the prospect. "I'll hit her, and you swoop in with a comforting friend hug so she doesn't get mad and kill us both."

Stefan gets a tiny twinkle in his eyes, but Caroline comes back before I have a chance to poke and prod him further about it. Noticing my inquiring gaze, Stefan reverts back to our silent ignoring, and tries to pretend I'm not carefully studying him as he stares out the window. The next hour is thankfully free of any more scenic tours of local fruit stands, but I can't help noticing Caroline's curious love/hate relationship she's currently having with her phone.

Every couple minutes, it buzzes with an incoming text, which either makes her shift uncomfortably or grip the steering wheel with Herculean strength. If it wasn't for vampire reflexes, I'd be certain we were headed towards a fiery car crash. Even Stefan seems nervous at the idea that all that separates us from careening off the side of the road is Caroline's focus on driving. Unfortunately, Caroline is so careful to shield the screen from any curious eyes, I can't tell who she's texting, or why it's causing her to have a conniption.

Neither of us says a word until we pass the bright, colorful billboard advertising the largest mall in Louisiana. Entirely oblivious to the fact that we're onto her 'secret' plan to set Stefan and I up to be friends, Caroline squeals excitedly at the sign. "Guys," she exclaims with glee. "We HAVE to stop! It could be a fun outing before Elena finds Damon and completely forgets that we exist." And just like that, Caroline has added one more unnecessary team building exercise to our already crowded itinerary. What part of I'm anxious to get back to Damon isn't Care understanding?

After Caroline's string of personal sightseeing and commercial stops, I am finally fed up. When we left Mystic Falls, Damon had an hour and a half head start, maybe two, but now we'll be lucky if Damon's still in New Orleans by the time we arrive. So with a furious puff of air, leaving my mouth like fire from a dragon, I sort of lose it.

"NO," I screech out in aggravation. "Stop the car," I order defiantly. "I'm getting out." Caroline abruptly stops on the shoulder of the road as I storm out, slamming the door behind me.

"Where are you going?" Caroline asks, with an eye roll and sarcastic edge to her tone, like I'm a disobedient child throwing a tantrum.

"I'm going after him," I scream, no longer concerned that I have no idea where I'm going or how I'll find Damon all alone. At the rate Caroline's going, it'll be 2015 before we even reach that damn bar.

Attempting tact, for what I assume is the first time in Caroline's life, she softens her voice, and uses her vamp strength to force me to take a seat on the grassy edge of the road. "What's this really about?" Caroline questions me gently, oozing maternal love all over the pavement, as she acts more like my older sister or mother than my best friend. While my stubborn side wants to kick, yell, and scream some more, the better angels of my nature tell me to stop acting like a preschooler, so I let Care comfort me as the speeding cars pass us by without a glance.

"I _need_ to get him back," I confess simply. A tear wells up in my eyes, which I fight to keep from falling, since I need to at least pretend to be strong right now. "It's my fault that he's gone," I admit guiltily, as the montage of my mistakes plays on repeat in my mind. "I found it easy to blame Stefan, and even you, for Damon leaving, but it was my fault too. Stefan might have guilted him into letting me go, but there was a reason he was so quick to believe it. I never once gave him reason to trust how I felt, and if we don't get him back, that's on me too."

Care rests my head against her shoulder, as Stefan stares on in sympathy after overhearing my shameful confession. "I was guilty too," Caroline admits softly. "I didn't realize how real this was for you until it was too late, and I have a confession to make," Care declares warily, afraid of my reaction. "I don't really like fruit that much," she states, to the shock of absolutely no one. "And as much as I love the mall, the ones in Richmond are way better. This was all part of my master plan," she sighs in defeat and regret.

"Well, duh," I reply sarcastically, feeling a little better after witnessing Care's ridiculous apology. "How stupid do you think Stefan and I are? We've known you were manipulating us since we left Virginia."

"Oh," Caroline responds uncomfortably, turning fifty shades of crimson red. "I guess I'm not as stealthy as I thought," she blushes, embarrassed and mortified at how quickly her plan had unraveled.

"Let's put it this way," I answer encouragingly, "I wouldn't put in an application at the CIA anytime soon." She laughs at my sudden attempt at levity and we share a giggly filled girl hug. Once the laughter dies down, I put on my serious face, the one reserved for dragging out the truth from my less than forthcoming bestie. "So you want to tell me what this is really about?" I inquire, trying to find just the right button to push, so that Care's explanation comes out like the word vomit she is so often known for. "Why is it so important for Stefan and me to be friends?"

"Because he's a good guy?" Caroline mutters, scarcely loud enough for my vampire hearing to pick up. "Because nice guys shouldn't finish last, just because there happen to be good looking, charming, infuriating men around, who make it their life's mission to wear you down," Care finishes her rant, with her mind clearly elsewhere, and a look that tells me she's about to make a break for it. That would be most unfortunate, since she still is in possession of the car keys. I approach her like I would a spooked animal.

"So just to be clear," I clarify calmly, "We stopped talking about me a little while ago, right?" Apparently I'm not near as funny as I thought I was, because Caroline can't even meet my eyes, and her usual pep seems to have been left in the car.

"I just . . . I need a minute," Caroline mumbles before stalking off down the middle of nowhere. Stefan is first to jump up, fully prepared to swoop in and bring that brilliant smile back to her face, but my arm across his chest stops him.

"I've got this," I promise reassuringly. "This is a girl talk moment, trust me." And after a tense beat, where I consider that Stefan might actually say no, he backs off, and I chase after my best friend.

"Can't a girl get a little privacy around here?" Caroline barks back at me, once she realizes that I'm tailing her.

"We need to talk about this, because that back there wasn't about me, and it wasn't about Stefan, so why don't you just tell me what Klaus said in all those mystery texts you were trying to hide while we were in the car?"

"What?" She stammers in disbelief. "How did you know Klaus was texting me?" Her penetrating eyes try to peer into my brain, I assume to activate her psychic powers, as she tries to investigate how I could be privy to her private messages.

"I didn't," I admit sheepishly, "Not for sure anyway, but we've been friends a long time, and I can still add two plus two to get four, so it wasn't hard to guess. What did he say to you?" I cautiously question her, not wanting to risk her sprinting to the next county to avoid talking about this.

The split second of indecision plays across her face in slow motion, and I don't need special powers to tell what she's thinking. The guilt, confusion, and fear couldn't be any more blatantly obvious if she tattooed it across her forehead. So I wait, patiently wait for the moment when she'll inevitably crack, when she'll _need_ someone to listen, because I might be the only one with a ten block radius that understands how lonely it is keeping that kind of a secret.

"You don't have to explain yourself," I finally tell her, hoping that it will grant her the courage to open up to me. "I've had my suspicions for a while now, and it's not like I'm in any position to judge."

"He _killed_ Aunt Jenna," Caroline bluntly reminds me, the memory acts like ice cold water running through my veins. "Klaus turned her," Caroline continues emotionlessly, "And then he killed her, and he did it all while you watched. I _should_ hate him. I _want_ to hate him. What does it say about me that I just _can't?_"

Helpless to find the right words for this Shakespearean tragedy of a love triangle, I come up blank. So I go for the truth, because I'm not sure what else I have to offer her. "I _hate _him," I admit honestly, cutting right through the pleasantries. "He might be the first person whom I ever truly wished to die. For weeks after the sacrifice, I would spend nights dreaming about him being painfully murdered, most of the times at my hands. So I won't stand here and pretend that I don't want more for you. But take it from someone who learned this lesson the hard way, don't judge yourself for who you choose to care about, because that is the one thing in life that is entirely out of our hands." And just like that a tiny crack forms on Caroline's impenetrable wall of sadness, and I break through her defenses to offer her the same comfort she gave to me.

"I felt so alone," Care explains, miserably. "I didn't think there was anyone who could understand, least of all you." I place my hand over hers as we sit together in our own little friendship bubble, kept safe from the rest of the world, reminding ourselves that we're never really alone. A comfortable silence falls between us, until I give reassurance one last try.

"Believe me I get," I respond compassionately, my hand gripping hers tightly, as she smiles back in appreciation. "You build up this idea of who he is, a monster, a predator, but then he looks at you a certain way, or he says something, kind, vulnerable, or profound, and you wonder how anyone could understand you so completely without you having to say a word."

"It's not the same," Caroline replies, dismissing the all too obvious parallel. "Most days I wish it was," she reflects regretfully, as she hugs her arms when a gush of wind blows through. "I wish I could love him like you love Damon, but as much as he gets to me, he's not a good guy. At his core, I worry there's not enough goodness to be saved, not enough warmth left over to salvage after 1000 years of bitterness. I can feel bad for him, wish for him to change, but at the end of the day, all the pretty words in the world don't make up for his actions. Klaus is too selfish, too lost. I want someone who would put me above anybody else, and I don't think that could ever be Klaus," Caroline acknowledges with a hint of disappointment.

"So what's the problem?" I ask curiously. "It sounds like you've already made up your mind."

Care's guilt, which was never far from the surface, comes bubbling up once more, and it's impossible not to feel bad for the well-meaning crazy person I call my best friend.

"I don't know how I can justify staying with Tyler, if I can so easily be swayed by the first hot British guy who gives me an ounce of attention. I CAN'T be with Klaus, but I don't think I WANT to be with Tyler anymore." Caroline waits, silently on bated breath as she anticipates either my full throated support, or my vicious reproach. I choose a comfortable middle ground, refusing to take sides in a contentious issue for both my old friends.

"I won't tell you what to do," I state in the strongest possible terms. "I won't claim to know any more about love than anyone else. But the simplest advice I can give is if Tyler makes you happy, stay with him."

"And if he doesn't anymore?" Caroline asks fearfully, uncertain whether she even needs a response.

With a saddened smile, I answer gloomily. "Well then I think you've already got your answer."

We continue sitting on the cold, hard ground, just holding onto one another as we contemplate what our futures might hold. I'm not sure whether we stay, rooted in that spot, for a few seconds, minutes or even hours, but once Caroline jumps up unexpectedly, it feels too soon. She shakes her head fiercely for a moment, until she dries her tears, plasters on a fake smile, and replies, "Boy did I make this whole trip pretty depressing there for a while."

Knowing she'd prefer I play along, rather than dwell on her emotional breakdown, I act like we were just exchanging a funny joke, and not discussing the end of her relationship. Caroline picks herself up off the ground, and you'd think she left fifteen pounds of emotional weight on the grassy stretch of that highway. Just to reassure me that she's back to her old self, she whispers, "Don't think our little heart to heart has at all distracted me from my chosen mission." I roll my eyes at what I'm sure she's implying. "Before the end of the month, I'm determined for you to be Stefan's new best friend, and I'm afraid neither of you get a say in the matter."

I don't fight hard against her, because past experience has taught me resistance is futile when it comes to Caroline. But I can't help myself in mentioning the obvious. "You might be aiming a bit too high there, Caroline. Stefan permanently filled the spot of official best friend a while ago. The rest of us are just vying for a strong second place."

As seems to be a recurring trend with my fellow road trip travelers, Caroline blushes shyly, while trying to hide it from my mocking stare. A crazy thought enters my brain for a moment, but I brush it off quickly, and convince myself my imagination must be running wild. Opposites might attract, but surely this is a step too far, achieving the impossible. Although it's hard not to imagine, if it _were_ possible, that would make one Hell of a story. But before I attempt to take over Caroline's primary function of town matchmaker, I drag Care along in the direction of the car.

Ever the control freak, Caroline has her composed face firmly in place once we make our way back to Stefan. Upon seeing her, he brushes the back of his knuckles against Caroline's arm, and I try to ignore how it lingers there, a fraction of a second longer than is appropriate. I suppress a giggle at the insane way that the world works. The old saying _everything happens for a reason_ has never felt truer than it does right now.

Stefan pulls me aside and asks quietly, "What happened out there?" His worry and concern for a girl we both love to death is enough to warm even the darkest hearts. I smile at him and promise, "It was just and ending, and if we are very, very lucky, maybe a new beginning." He doesn't say anything after that. Because when your ex gets super cryptic about your shared best friend, what is there to say? As I climb back into the back seat of the Unfun Mobile, I'm filled with a sense of hope, that maybe this can turn out alright. All that's missing is Damon, with a witty quip about Care's emotional bipolar episodes and a smirking smile. I dare to believe, that wherever he is, whatever he's feeling, he just might be thinking about me too.

* * *

(Not so far away and not too long from now, the Big Easy gains one more lost soul, self-medicating with booze and music in the hopeless pursuit of numbing the pain away. In case you need any further hints, it's the idiot in the leather jacket.)

Three glasses of top shelf whiskey every hour, that's exactly the dosage I've prescribed myself in my drunken efforts to forget the chestnut haired beauty I left behind. The bourbon must being doing the trick, because I've gone from thinking about Elena 54 times a minute, to a perfectly respectable 42 times, so clearly it's working. I increase my intake, hoping that if I can drown my subconscious in alcohol that I might be able to go a whole minute without thinking about _her._

Tragically for me, I think the only peace I'll get is if I'm unconscious. On that brilliant thought, I start scanning the bar, preferably for scary biker dudes, hoping I can piss off one of them enough to take a swing at me. While I've never met any human strong enough to knock me out, short of snapping my neck, there's no harm in experimentation. And just as I'm about to engage in a 'spirited' discussion with the tatted up guy next to the jukebox, some bumbling idiot spills his drink right into my lap. Icy alcohol on my crotch is just what I need, because it's not like enough of my clothes have been ruined this week. Torn shirts, ruined pants, it's enough to make a guy buy in bulk from the internet.

As I prepare to at least verbally, if not physically, eviscerate the drunkard who hasn't mastered the art of walking and drinking, a familiar face apologizes profusely, and I can't help smirking at the repeat offender. "Freddie," I greet warmly. The good doctor's face transforms into one of concern, and possibly fear.

"Are you stalking me?" Dr. Winters asks with trepidation. "Because I'm on vacation visiting my sister, plus the whole no license thing, so I can't really offer you free psychiatric advice."

With all the booze in my system, I laugh uncontrollably at the doctor's assumption, which I think he mistakes for maniacal laughter, since he carefully edges away from me. "You think I drove 14 hours for a shrink?" I ask incredulously. I might indefinitely keep a seat saved for my dead friend, whom only Jeremy can see, but it's not like I have mental problems.

"Believe it or not, I've been frequenting this bar since before you were even born," I argue without thinking. Freddie studies me for a second, likely diagnosing me with multiple personality disorder or schizophrenia, and I groan out loud as I realize I'll probably have to compel him, which is something I'd been hoping to avoid in the future. This sire bond bullshit has me so fed up with mind games, I might have to switch to blood bags permanently, just to avoid the bitter taste that compulsion now leaves in my mouth. Luckily I remember that dear old Freddie's a washed up drunk who already thinks I'm crazy, so fuck it, why not be honest?

"But since you're here," I abruptly shift gears, and pat the unoccupied seat to my right, "You might as well take a seat. As a sign of my benevolent nature, I'll even buy you another drink to replace the one that's all over my pants."

Still uncertain of my motives, Dr. Drunky, as I've now taken to calling him, slides next to me all the same. It was an easy move to predict, since I promised an alcoholic free booze, because I'm apparently a closet enabler. "Did you ever even call that friend of mine that I recommended?" Drunky inquires thoughtfully, which I of course reply to with my usual level of charm, a.k.a. sarcasm.

"Yes I did as a matter of fact," I exclaim with faux excitement. "He was such a miracle worker; he fixed all my neuroses in the past 24 hours, which is why I'm drinking in the middle of the day, with _you._"

"In my profession, we call that deflecting," Drunky replies, every bit the smart ass as I am. Matching my new verbal sparring partner punch for punch, I retort back.

"I think you mean ex-profession, doc. And what with your 'problem,' I'm not sure you're in the business of giving advice anymore." Freddie flinches at the insult as it appears I've struck a nerve. But seamlessly, he shrugs it off, and throws on a cocky smirk, which I swear I'd bought the exclusive rights to years ago.

"Please," Drunky arrogantly scoffs, "even liquored up I could diagnose you in ten minutes." I raise my eyebrows in disbelief as I sense a challenge being laid down.

"Really?" I question unconvinced, and gunning for a fight. "You think you can figure me out, huh, make me cry on your couch? I have a brother whose known me for his entire life, and he still doesn't have a clue. So what makes you think you can do any better?"

The doc is starring me down, practically double dog daring me make a move. Then he goes and pulls the sentimental card, and I kind of want to punch him. "I can do better, because something tells me that not everyone else was paying attention. So since neither of us seems to be going anywhere, why don't you tell me the whole sad story," Freddie challenges me boldly, not even having the decency to look scared of me. I throw my hand up in the air in a dismissive manner.

"Bitching and moaning about my problems isn't a productive use of my time, so why bother?" Freddie grabs my arm, because apparently a frightening, possible mental patient isn't enough to scare the doctor away from a lost cause.

With a troubled expression, Freddie keeps resisting my attempts to give him the brush off. And for the first time since I've met him, I can see him being a decent shrink. I'm sure the never say die attitude must really wow the sheep-like masses. Steady determination would make anyone stop and take notice, and his tough love speech really is one for the record books.

"From where I'm sitting, you're completely and utterly alone," he summarizes coldly, not sugarcoating the crappy truth. "The way I see it; other than my sister, who's trying to have me forcibly committed to a rehab program, I haven't got anybody either. So ask yourself, what have you got to lose?"

"Except my dignity," I reply jokingly, not willing to concede the upper hand, especially to someone who majored in pretending to listen empathetically. Freddie scoffs at my answer, amused, but not discouraged.

"You're sitting in a grungy bar with a washed up shrink, because as far as I can tell, you don't have any real friends, so I think it's a safe bet that your dignity went the way of the Dodo some time ago." The smug expression on Drunky's face isn't doing wonders for my mood, and if it's true what they say about the beneficial advantages of therapy, I swear I'm getting jipped. But in lieu of any other options, I stay put.

"Fine," I relent angrily as I try to remember why I'm not killing this guy yet. "Where would you like to start? I'm an open damn book today."

Sharing feelings can be listed as my 474th favorite activity, right behind getting my teeth drilled by a jittery dentist. Although at this point, I'm willing to try anything, because I think the doc's latched onto me like a charity case project. And without some evidence of personal growth, he might stalk _me_ forever.

As Freddie gives me his best studious psychiatrist look, he starts in on the interrogation, or 'therapy session,' as he likes to call it. "Why don't you start with something simple? What led you to New Orleans?"

"Girl troubles," I answer mysteriously, employing a tactic I learned one summer when I was partying with some law students back in '82. Their rule was, never answer more than was asked. Rolling his eyes at my constant deflection and diversion, the doc doesn't give up.

"Tell me about her," Freddie politely requests, too unassuming to become mad at, which I find all the more frustrating.

"She's just a girl," I lie casually, not wanting to reveal too much. My master plan doesn't last long though, because before I know it, I get carried away, releasing all my frustration in one giant mess of consonants and vowels. I completely lose control over my rapid rate of speech, and afterwards, I'm not even sure what I really said.

"She's infuriating, stubborn, contradictory, and an overly compassionate mess in general," I list off in aggravation. "I don't know how she even functions without her heart breaking over some sad puppy she finds in the middle of the road. Her heart thinks one thing, but her head says another, and she spends forever trying to please both. For instance, Elena, the nut job in question, has a paralyzing fear of spiders. She told me she woke up to one crawling on her face when she was six, and she's been terrified of them ever since. So one day she spots one, jumps up on the couch like a little girl, but when I try to kill it with my shoe, she shouts at me to take it outside. Elena's bleeding heart couldn't stand the thought of me killing a _spider_ and she _hates_ spiders. So you want to know my problem doc? She's my problem," I proclaim in a huff.

He takes a beat, absorbs what I've said and replies back. "So you love this girl," Freddie states matter of factly, like he hasn't spent all of ten minutes getting to know me.

"Seriously, that's all that you got from what I just said?" For a psychiatrist, he's a terrible listener.

"It seemed to be the only part that mattered," he reasons flippantly. "So why'd she dump you?"

"I dumped her," I correct loudly and obnoxiously, wanting to get the story straight. Freddie sits and nods his head a lot, because that seems to be the only thing they taught him in that joke of a med school.

"So your problem is that you're an idiot?" He asks, taking another stab at it.

With a clenched jaw, and a measured response, I reply, "She's better off without me." In hindsight, finding out about that sire bond early was a gift. It let me know where I stood, and it confirmed what I always knew deep down. I wasn't cut out for _this_. Katherine knew it, Stefan knew it, and even Elena knew it once too. Some people are meant for the whole white picket fence, happily ever after thing, and I simply wasn't one of them. That's why I had to set her free. But of course I don't intend to tell that to anyone, not even a stranger. Even in the New Orleans, I have a reputation to protect. So when the doc starts back with his incessant questions, I fake a distant disdain. Not that that would stop him.

"Why's she better off without you?" Freddie questions clinically, even scribbling a few notes on a bar napkin.

"She deserves to be happy," I state as plainly as I can put it. "And she can't be happy with me."

"So you left her?" He follows up, not being terribly delicate about it.

"Yeah," I answer gruffly, not wanting to dwell any further on that painful memory.

Dr. Winters looks back over his notes, scratches his chin in contemplation, before offering me his official diagnosis. "So we're back to idiot," he concludes seriously.

I clench my glass considerably tighter, which is why it's no surprise when it shatters in my hand. I've played along with this little charade, but I'm so over it. Apparently 'sharing' is also an activity I'm just not cut out for, and I have no intention of continuing this preposterous exercise.

"You don't know me," I declare furiously. "I deign to let you breathe the same air for five minutes and suddenly you fancy yourself a miracle worker."

Freddie puts the cap on his pen and pushes away the drink that I failed to notice he never touched. "It's sad," he remarks, "tragic even, how different you view yourself from the rest of us mere mortals. That's what will be your downfall," he predicts ominously. "I might not know _you_, but I know human behavior, and if I'm right, you'll never let yourself be happy. You'll stand in your own way and destroy any good thing that comes into your life. So maybe _I_ can't help you, but someone's got to, or you will lead a _pathetic_ miserable life, and you will die all alone."

This time I try to take a swing at him. I pull my fist back, fully prepared to lay him out cold. What stops me is his face, the unflinching certainty on it, like he was expecting this all along. I'm that fucking predictable, so I lower my hand, if for no other reason than to deprive him of the satisfaction of being right. Since I can't resort to physical violence, I give shouting a try, hoping that it will give me the same feeling of release, of adrenaline, that I get from using my fists to solve my problems.

"Calling me an idiot's a cheap shot, and frankly beneath you, Freddie," I explain, pissed off and on a real tear. "So if you're such an expert, go on, hit me with your best psychobabble. I dare you. You want to wax on about how my mother's sudden death left me with abandonment issues, or how daddy never loved me? Please tell me what other clichés I can expect from Dr. PhD himself."

It should be noted, that I now have the attention of the entire bar, four of whom I think are covertly trying to call the police to have me removed. Cursing, I plop back down and drink the remnants of my glass and of Freddie's for good measure. My overzealous shrink warily sits back down next to me as he stares on with pity. Which is just perfect, because the one thing I hate more than 'sharing,' is pity. You'd think Freddie would use this time for silent reflection, or if he's really smart, to plot out all the exits out of this bar. Instead he matches me snark for snark and doesn't quiver, not even from alcohol withdrawals.

"First off," Freddie starts authoritatively, "We'll skip past the fact that you hide behind sarcasm as the only way to comfortably express genuine honesty and vulnerability. No use wasting time on that, since I'm pretty sure the homeless vagrant down the block could've figured that out. You want some psychobabble, fine, here's my _expert_ opinion. You operate on a day to day basis in what can best be described as chronic depression. You wake up miserable, go to bed, miserable, and you fill the day with bourbon just so you can have one sweet moment of peace. And the absolute worst part is, that you don't even think you _deserve_ to be happy. You're fighting a losing battle with yourself, and you'll never win it that way. So a bit of friendly advice from someone's whose hit rock bottom and then some, find the girl, be happy, be normal, because everything else is crap."

And with one parting pat on my shoulder, the opinionated shrink makes his dramatic exit, without a single drunken misstep. I'm left waiting; in a bar I haven't visited in 70 years, all in the vain hope that Charlotte still visits this place from time to time. I think I've redefined pathetic. So instead of continue to stew in my own misery like a chump, I pick myself up and try to find a place to stay in this city, because the feeling sorry portion of the trip is over and done with. I'm a man of action, and I'm going to find my former progeny even if I have to comb through every occupied building in this city to do it.

Three steps out the door, and I crash face first into what I assume is a drunken tourist. Once the women's lips meet mine, and her tongue tries to invade my mouth, I realize she is either _very _drunk or I'm missing something. I pull back an inch, staring into familiar eyes. "Charlotte," I breathe in disbelief. Well that was easy.

Before I have a chance to celebrate my bit of good luck, she's gone. In a flash of movement, she's thrown, hard, across the brick wall, her neck temporarily snapped by the impact. As I ground my feet, preparing for a fight, Elena's calming gaze meets mine, and I can't contain my joy. A wide grin stretches across my face. That is until her right hand lands a punishing blow to my cheek. I stumble back from the sheer force of her swing. I've never seen Elena, this territorial, this jealous, or this ferocious. It would be damn cute if she wasn't trying so hard to physically injure me.

When she finally speaks, I feel like a child in the principal's office, and I know I'm in for World War III. But it doesn't matter how pissed she is, because she's _here._ Taking a chance, I invade Elena's personal space before she has a chance to say a word. I inhale her scent as she fights to remember what she's so mad about. In an impulsive move, I pull her close to me, and I feel her breasts pressed against my chest, and her breath warming my neck. When I tentatively meet her lips, it really does feel like coming home. It feels like happiness, and I lose myself in it, because maybe Freddie really was onto something. My brief bliss only causes it to hurt so much when she roughly shoves me away. She stares disgusted; like she can barely stand the sight of me. But what really gets to me are her tears, because they cascade down her cheeks as she tries furiously to conceal them. I feel helpless, speechless even, which is a distinct first for me, and her words slice worse than a wooden sword and sting more than vervain.

"I wasn't expecting to have to physically wrestle other women for your affections," she bites out viciously. "Did it really take you less than a day to find some skank in a bar to numb the pain away?"

I take one step forward, knowing that if I can just get to her I can fix this, but I blink and she's gone. The sighting so brief, I'd swear it was a dream, a mirage, or maybe even a delusion, but the arrival of my brother and blondie confirm the worst. Elena came back for me, and I already lost her.

**As Always Please Read and Review**


	7. Chapter 7

**I am so sorry this update is majorly late guys, but I struggled with this chapter more than I have ever with any chapter. I rewrote the first part, like 6 times. It has gone through various levels of sucking. I hope that this version isn't completely terrible. This chapter took way too many hours, and I am dying to hear what you guys think. **

**A big thank you to all my fabulous readers who take the time to leave me a review. It means a lot to me. And another thank you, not to mention a yellow hippo, for my amazing sounding board Cher Sue. She put up with all my writer's block, and is a big reason this chapter got posted. **

**I hope you all enjoy!**

Clusterfuck. It's a word so appropriate for my current circumstances, I'd swear it was created for just this purpose. The woman I love has vanished, in a city of hundreds of thousands of people, and my supernatural backup is the cast from Dumb and Dumber. To top it all off, my faith in my brother's capabilities has fallen even further, as Stefan maintains his usual status quo of LVP (least valuable player). It's amazing what an uncanny impression Stefan can do of those street performers who act like real life statues in Central Park. All that's needed is a spiteful pigeon to poop on him for the look to finally be complete. Blondie scores one for the fairer sex, as she at least _looks_ fired up and ready for a fight. Granted her anger is probably directed at _me_ for the little misunderstanding with Charlotte, but hey at least she's got the spunky attitude down pat.

However, I quickly rethink my position when her dainty little hands start beating on my chest like a two year old with bongo drums. "An eternity on your hands, and your oversized libido couldn't wait 24 hours to find your first rebound skank?" Caroline scolds bitterly. Her protective mama bear instincts nearly tear a hole through my new shirt, like I really needed to go shopping _again._ Once her tiny fists prove inadequate, she stomps her heels right on my big toe, just to prove she means business. Eventually I have my fill of teenage theatrics, grip her arms at her sides, and hand her off to Stefan. We share a conspiratorial look, and he gets the message, as he gently holds her back, keeping her from breaking a nail while she tries to pummel me. He keeps whispering comforting clichés into her ear, and somehow it actually calms the overactive blonde. Stefan is like the Caroline whisperer. I store this knowledge for later, since it could possibly save my life one day.

In the meantime, I resume business as usual. Riling Blondie up is practically my full time job, and she certainly deserves a little punishment after allowing Elena to walk in at the exact wrong moment, so I turn on snark that I know makes Caroline's skin crawl. "First off," I remark patronizingly, "I think I need to have a little chat with Liz about playing nice with others and confronting your anger management issues." Unable to control her kill Damon urges, Caroline struggles against Stefan's grasp. In a showing of sibling solidarity, he simply holds her tighter the more that she pulls against him, like a Chinese finger trap for vampires. Pushing past the limits Blondie would usually allow before killing me, I give a disapproving wiggle of my finger in front of her face. The venom directed at yours truly makes me deeply regret my taunting insult, since I think she's about ten seconds away from biting my finger clean off. I've faced down originals before, but Caroline's 'don't mess with me' stare is downright terrifying. I'd say fun with Caroline time is officially over.

Not wanting to outrun a pissed off vampire cheerleader, I switch gears from instigator to diplomat. "Not that it's any of your business," I preface indignantly, not wanting her to believe she has any power over me, "but I didn't come here to get into some girl's pants." Her quick survey of my tone, facial expressions, and overall sincerity prove insufficient, so she takes a step back, awaiting more information so she can make her final ruling on my guilt, and then likely chop my head off. "The vampire whose neck little miss warrior princess broke, happens to be have been sired to me 70 years ago. After I stopped her from sexually assaulting me, I was planning on asking some questions. That was of course until Elena knocked her unconscious."

Blondie's embarrassment personifies the expression _boy will your face be red_. Caroline listens, scowls, and ultimately erupts in a fit of giggles at my description of the 'attack' I so unfairly received. I scoff at her school girlish reaction to the cause of my current misery. It's sexism in action if I've ever seen it. If this had happened to Elena, Caroline would be holding the first pitchfork, and she'd turn the unsuspecting man into swiss cheese. But because this happened to _me,_ suddenly I'm not a victim. I feel there should be some parade I need to march in or hotline I should call to report such obvious hypocrisy.

My outrage at the blatant double standard takes away my focus from the uncomfortable stance Blondie and my brother have adopted. They shift back and forth from each foot, and they're both so in sync I'd swear they choreographed this earlier. And their guilty expressions are identical as well. If they keep this up, I'll be expecting matching sweater sets on these two next Christmas.

My patience wears razor thin with all this secret keeping, and eventually my quota for social nicety runs out. "What the Hell is it?" I grill suspiciously. "You're both being awkward and weird, and seeing as how I'm the only one with the right to freak out at this moment, grow a pair and pull it together."

Caroline shuffles her feet a bit more, does the whole innocent avoidance act, and then her blabber mouth instincts take over. "This might be a bad time to tell you this," Blondie begins carefully, trying to choose whichever words won't result in her eyebrows being singed off after my angry explosion. "But Elena found a way around the sire bond," Blondie announces timidly, then ducking behind my brother for cover.

Contrary to everyone's expectations, I don't implode or lash out. Hell I don't even yell at the pitiful excuses for vampires I see standing before me. I almost wish I had, because that story would make me sound a lot less like a teenage girl. Now I'll disavow to the grave that this ever happened, but I somehow manage to stumble over my own feet, and come crashing down hard on the gravel pavement. Not exactly my most graceful moment, but I feel I should be cut some slack. My entire belief system centered around the idea that no one gave a damn about me, not of their own free will anyway. That's what made the sire bond so easy to believe, because it made more sense than Elena simply loving me. But if what Blondie was saying is true, then Elena came down here of her own free will, to win me back, to fight for me, or some equally ridiculous romantic cliché. I try to tramp down any hope that might be bubbling up in my chest at what that could truly mean. Still in shock, I pose my question to the group, unsure who I'm even addressing. "What are you talking about?"

The prettier and I'm convinced smarter member of my dynamic duo chimes in, apparently feeling pretty confident that I don't in fact intend to decapitate anyone standing within ten feet of me. "She broke through whatever stupid sire bond order made her forget you," Caroline confesses bravely, no longer afraid of my reaction. "She broke it because she missed you, because she _needed_ you."

Blondie's eyes are getting all teary eyed, caught up in whatever romantic crap she's constructed in her head. Unfortunately for me, I think Elena's energetic little friend might have forgotten the part where Elena left me sixty seconds after finding me. It kind of puts a kink in the 'epic' reunion scene Blondie had envisioned. "And just a quick recap for those who seem willfully ignorant of the facts, Elena's gone," I recall angrily. "She split the second she saw Charlotte's lips become surgically glued to mine. Your friend possessed such perfectly terrible timing; you'd think the universe created this moment just to screw with us both."

"That's not _entirely_ accurate," Blondie counters weakly.

"Oh, no, I'd say it was a pithy description," Stefan agrees carelessly. "He definitely covered all the major plot points," he remarks, putting his sadly neglected wit to good use. My brother's sarcastic entrance into the conversation raises certain questions that have been nagging at me ever since he first arrived. What is he even doing in New Orleans? Stefan doesn't look murderous, so I think the city's college coeds are safe, but my brother's motives shift so rapidly that I once considered buying him a mood ring just to keep track of his ever fragile emotional state.

"Not that I don't enjoy brotherly moments like this one, but why'd you crash the party, Stef?" A slight crinkle of his eyebrows, leads me to believe he's actually hurt by my brusqueness, as if he's still my dorky kid brother who throws a fit whenever I don't let him hang out with the 'cool kids.' I don't have time to marvel at the absurdity that Stefan still takes what I say seriously, because my blundering brother gets all rambling and kind of stammery. And of course this happens _after_ I tossed my phone, with its helpful video function, out my car window. Stefan's nervousness is pure comedic gold, and I curse myself for not being able to capture this Kodak moment for posterity.

"I'm not really sure why I came," Stefan admits genuinely, not even lifting his head to look me in the eyes. "I remember something about Caroline kidnapping me and there was forced singing involved, but the rest is a bit of a blur. But the long and short of it is, I plan to drag you back home, and in case you were curious, no you don't get a vote in the matter."

Must say I'm impressed. In my absence, his retorts have gotten snappier, and Stefan's backbone is like that of a real boy's. But I still eye him skeptically, trying to imagine a universe where Stefan would be willing to drive me back into the arms of the girl who broke his heart. That was my thing. I thought only I was idiotic enough to pursue such self destructive goals.

"Why the suddenly philanthropy, brother?" I question him suspiciously. My spidey senses won't let me accept that this is an act of benevolence. One too many betrayals in my life have left me with what I'm sure my resident therapist would label as trust issues, and Stefan's the cause of most of them. So there's got to be another reason, another angle that he's playing at. Because if there's one fact I've accepted as gospel truth, it's that my brother hates me. Most days I can't even give him a reason not to. So why would he want to help me _now?_

In my extensive list of life's mysterious questions, I add that one to the top, with a big fucking star next to it. As if he's not freaking me out enough, I start to notice the misting of Stefan's eyelids, and I fear that he's caught whatever wave of romanticism has Caroline in a tizzy. He puts his arm on my shoulder, and I ignore every instinct that tells me to shrug it off. Since he did come all this way, I might as well throw him a bone.

"We've spent 160 years together," Stefan reminisces nostalgically, "Always in and out of each other's lives, but for the life of me I can't think of a single person who knows me better than you do. But I barely know _you_," Stefan admits, hanging his head in shame. "I'm not sure that I ever really tried to. I didn't get it. I didn't want to. I buried my head in the sand, and then blamed you when it all fell apart." Stefan stares back at me expectantly, just waiting.

I don't want to give in. I don't want to break whatever indifferent nonchalance has become Stefan and I's go to way of dealing with each other. I'm too afraid that this is some cruel trick that he's playing on me. I attempted the same thing once. He'd hardly be in the wrong to give me a taste of my own medicine. But something in his eyes holds me back from whatever sarcastic, mean spirited retort I had planned. He looks truly sorry, the same way he did after he apologized for forcing me to turn in 1864. So even if I make a fool out of myself, with egg on my face, I don't care. I _want_ to believe him. I want my little brother back.

"It wasn't your fault," I offer as consolation, knowing my martyr baby bro is probably finding some way to shoulder all the blame for this. "It's not like Elena and I were advertising what was going on between us. Any significant conversation we ever had took place far away from anyone's prying eyes. Getting chummy with the town misanthrope isn't exactly the juicy gossip I expect her to gush over with Judgy." And my self pity makes this conversation all the more depressing. God do I need whiskey right now. But Stefan of all people fancies himself my new cheer leader. The thought itself is almost as ridiculous as the image of Steffie wearing the outfit with Pom Poms

"That wasn't it," Stefan counters, with surprising conviction for someone who's spent the last few months majorly clueless. "She was never ashamed of you," he promises, taking a moment to collect his thoughts as if he's finally putting the confusing puzzle pieces together. "Elena just didn't know how to explain it. In hindsight, it might have been incredibly stupid, but at the time, that's the price she was willing to pay," Stefan claims cryptically, choosing to leave out the rest of his thought to build suspense, like we don't have enough dramatic tension already.

"The price she paid for what?"

He peers down at me, quirking his eyebrow in deep concentration, weighing the pros and cons of answering my question. And once he does, I'm tempted to fall over again, until I remember I'm still on the ground. "The price of letting her love for you grow in secret," Stefan replies uncomfortably. His awkwardness only makes me feel worse. His one little sentence made our back and forth go from spilling food on your shirt awkward to walking into school naked awkward. I don't know what to say, or how to act. Stefan's got his hero hat back on. He hasn't even tried to hit me once. And now Stefan, the same guy who convinced me to walk away a mere 36 hours ago, is waxing on about Elena and I's forbidden love. Someone really has to write all this down, because I'm having trouble keeping track of Stefan's mood swings. Maybe Blondie would be willing to create some sort of instructional chart to help me keep it all straight.

After waiting patiently for me to speak, yell, or storm off, I finally settle on patting the corner of pavement next to me signaling for my little brother to take a seat. Once he finishes searching the area for booby traps, he sits down, not any surer than I am how to have a heart to heart after all this time. And it certainly doesn't help that Blondie is gazing on with an aggravating 'AWW' expression on her face. She looks like someone just sent her a picture of a group of puppies cuddling each other. Her sappiness is overwhelming. Trying my best to block out the image of Blondie squealing to herself, I ask my brother the honest, no bullshit question that pops up whenever we attempt the whole brother bonding thing.

"Is this for real?" I ask hesitantly, not wanting to burst any family togetherness bubble Stefan and I've formed in the past 5 minutes. "Because if this is one of your 12 steps for a recovering blood addict, I'd just as soon skip the family hug." He rolls his eyes at my deflection.

"I'm not trying to play you, Damon," Stefan promises earnestly, making a surprisingly convincing case. "Elena said some things back in Mystic Falls, about mistakes I've made, assumptions, about you, that weren't completely fair." After a century and a half of relying only on myself, and occasionally Elena, trust was a lot to ask of someone like me.

"So all is forgiven?" I ask defensively. "One conversation with Elena, and suddenly we're headed to the latest diner for malts and a burger?"

"God no," Stefan objects immediately. By his reaction, you'd think I'd suggested a friendly game of vervain dodge ball. "We can barely manage polite chit chat most days. If we try and force it, I predict death, carnage, at the very least mean spirited banter." Its official now he's just _trying_ to confuse me.

"So what do you want?" I ask in exasperation, because I'm not sure if _he_ even knows. A second away from writing this off as another one of my brother's phases, he reels me back in like some kind of masochistic moron.

"A chance," he replies hopefully. His wide eyed optimism is basically my kryptonite. And he has the gall to _continue _being all sappy and touchy feely. "While I don't see hugging in our near future, that doesn't mean we can't find a way to be civil, to figure out how it's going to work with the three of us, for all eternity."

"It sounds like a bad soap opera," I joke kiddingly, gaining an amused smirk from my typically morose brother.

"Yeah," he remarks distantly, with more on his mind than he's letting on. After about 15 pokes to Stefan's chest, which used to be my standard method of forcing the truth out of him when we were kids, Stefan finally opens up with what's on his mind. "It really is going to suck isn't it?" He questions darkly, pain lacing his hardened features.

"What?"

"Seeing you two together," he answers sadly. His question brings up all the images of myself standing on the sidelines watching the Stefan and Elena show, the gut wrenching agony of listening to every I love you, and being cut deeply with every lingering kiss. I don't even need to think about the question; yes this will most certainly suck for him. "I still love her," he confesses with difficulty. "Maybe not like I did, but rejection is painful no matter what the circumstances. And I can't help thinking that if I were good enough, if I were better, that she would've stayed." And with that, I feel like a complete prick. It's not a new sensation by any means, but it creeps in every time I think about how Elena and I came together. I need to believe that we did everything that we could, that we fought as hard as possible against what we felt. Because the alternative is that we were unbelievably selfish, me most of all.

"I know how you feel," I acknowledge, thoroughly ashamed, not just of sleeping with Elena, but of loving her, of hurting him, of all the choices I've made that have caused my brother pain. Since I believe more in penance than apologies, I graciously offer, "Want to hit me?" This causes Stefan to stare at me like I've grown an extra head, or possibly bunny ears.

"No," he finally replies with a smirk.

"Stake me."

"No."

"String me up by my toes and set me on fire."

"That last one's pretty tempting," he responds lightly, "but no."

We share a moment of rare laughter. And I try searching my memory for the last time we just enjoyed each other's company. I'm embarrassed to say that I'd need to reach back nearly 70 years to recall such an event. "So what do we do now?" I glance over at my brother who has a peculiar smile on his face. It's unnatural, like an open minded witch or a newcomer without a secret agenda. Stefan kicks a few rocks out of his way before answering our eternal question.

"We try really hard not to kill each other," he proposes somewhat seriously. "I mean if we've managed to avoid fratricide for this long, surely our brotherhood can survive one teenage girl." I work to keep a straight face, but I can't avoid the telltale curving of my lips. His sudden cocky demeanor is aggravating. Stefan is taking far too much joy in the knowledge that I temporarily found him funny. Clearly this must be stopped.

"See now you're just getting all mushy with your squishy girly feelings, and frankly it's embarrassing us both," I tease mercilessly. "And in case you haven't noticed, we've got bigger problems than your awkward display of brotherly emotion."

"Right," Stefan recalls, in a far better mood than I typically expect from him. "You kind of screwed that one up pretty quick didn't you?" Stefan teases me with a smile on his face, because apparently someone gave him the impression that he was funny. I blame a certain cheerleader. And apparently my humiliation is not yet complete, because Stefan isn't finished mocking me just yet. "I mean Elena came here to practically offer herself to you on a silver platter, and my quasi blessing was the shiny bow on top of all of it. And you still messed it all up in the first sixty seconds."

"Remind me again why I don't kill you?" I deadpan seriously. Stefan's ashen face restores my faith in my comedic timing. He breaks out in a nervous laugh once he realizes I don't intend to murder him . . . you know today.

"I should have known you wouldn't kill me," Stefan comments confidently.

"Oh, yeah, and why's that?" I challenge.

"I was nice to you for like a solid minute, so killing me now would saddle you with a pretty massive guilt complex for the next century," Stefan reasons.

"Great," I sarcastically remark, "So in summary, I'm having the day from Hell, and I can't even punch you in the face without guilt." Stefan appears pleased at my violent sense of humor, and I have to admit, the punk is kind of growing on me.

Caroline reasserts her presence once she feels we've finished our little 'moment.' "Okay, so this really isn't your kind of day so far, but let's not focus on the negative. While you two were sharing in your little bromance moment, we seem to have forgotten about our primary objective, i.e. finding Elena. We need ideas, or ooh I know, a committee, a brain trust dedicated to an Elena Gilbert search party. So start spit balling. Remember there are no bad ideas."

"Why don't we start calling out her name," Stefan proposes optimistically. "She's a vampire, so we know that she'll hear us."

And after an internal facepalm, I turn to Blondie and reply, "So much for that theory," I contradict. "There are in fact bad ideas, and I think calling out for Elena like a lost puppy dog tops the list."

Caroline swoops in and fulfills my brother's usual role of the coddler of the group as she rubs her hand across his back in an oddly intimate gesture. "No, it wasn't _that_ bad," Caroline counters positively. "We'll just call that Plan B," Blondie compromises, placating Stefan with a lingering look that lasts far too long to be platonic.

"Okay, before this gets _more_ awkward, Blondie hand me your phone," Caroline scowls at the nickname, and I'm pretty sure at my cock blocking of her tender caresses. Regardless, she hands me the device, huffing in protest. I quickly find the phone tracker app that Bonnie showed me when Elena and Caroline were trapped in the school with my old buddy's alter ego. Who needs witches when you've got technology? "You two, carry on with whatever _this_ is," I order, while gesturing between them both. "I'm going after her."

As I gain my bearings and try to follow the green dot with Elena's name next to it, I can hear Blondie's cheerful encouragement. "We're all behind you," she shouts out with supportive optimism.

And my brother tries to covertly whisper. "Oh, God this is going to go so badly."

"Are you kidding," Blondie adds, "She's going to skewer him like a shish kabob."

And these are the people supposedly on my side. Man do I need better friends.

* * *

**Elena's POV:**

(Sitting friendless and well on her way to being tipsy, the eldest Gilbert waits for the cavalry to come busting in.)

It's only a matter of time, I speculate, as I toss back another guzzle of whiskey that I swiped from some bar along the way. The foul taste and burn of the bourbon does nothing to deter me from swallowing another wretched mouthful, because I made the rookie mistake of falling for a womanizing jackass. And I have only myself to blame. My friends, my family, sometimes even complete strangers all warned me, not to mention every movie, TV show, and book about heartbreak should have cautioned me against the perils of falling for a charming set of blue eyes, but Damon has such pretty eyes.

I then curse myself for my weakness and my stupid tear ducts betray me. I was convinced that I was too proud to cry over him. Stupid, annoying, pain in the ass, he even interrupts my moping. Just as I'm muttering to myself about how differently this moment went in my head, the vampire gigolo in question appears. "I'm pissed at you," I mumble in between the alcohol induced hiccups and the crying. "I road tripped with Caroline and Stefan, visited every fruit stand in 1,000 miles, and when I finally find you, you've got your tongue down some random chick's throat." Damon takes a step back, giving me space, but unfazed by my rather insistent rejection.

"First off," Damon points out, "my tongue was firmly inside my own mouth. Secondly, she wasn't random," he replies in his own defense. "Her name is Charlotte."

"Whoa, 10 points for learning the skank's name," I reply sarcastically. "Unfortunately for you, that is not enough to earn my forgiveness, so I'm going to go find an alley _without_ you in it."

Barring my escape route, Damon vamp speeds in front of me, shifting around every time I try to break free. "Don't make me chase you around the whole damn world," Damon pleads intensely. His eyes well up with tears of his own, and my heart breaks at the sight. "I've got an eternity to play cat and mouse with you, and I'll never stop."

The feelings become too much and I _need _to escape_. _I make a strategic fake out and nearly slip free from his grasp. One stray arm is all that stops me from my freedom. Damon catches it, and speeds me against the nearest wall. My back against a concrete surface brings back unwanted, and arousing memories of frantic kisses in that motel in Denver. "Will you stop being so stubborn and listen to me for a second?" Damon shouts in frustration. "Give me five minutes," he requests in desperation. "If after that you want to run off, join a convent, fine, I won't stop you, but you came all this way. You might as well hear me out." His stupid puppy dog eyes are my undoing.

"You've got three minutes," I relent hesitantly, unable to leave without an explanation. Damon takes a minute to form actual words. I don't think he ever expected to make it this far.

"She's been sired to me for the past 70 years," Damon admits after a fashion. "And I thought if I asked super nicely, that she might actually help."

My skepticism can't dissipate with a few crumbs of information. "So not only is _Charlotte_ super slutty, but she's also your little love slave, forced to serve you for all eternity."

Damon takes my catty comment with a grain of salt. "I'm the victim here," he asserts dramatically. "Why is no one else seeing that? She came out of nowhere, and wouldn't take no for an answer. I feel dirty and used." His absolute insistence in his innocence is hard to ignore. Damon is nothing if not persuasive. Unable to resist his charms, I crack a tiny smile. Sadly Damon picks up on it immediately.

"See," Damon remarks excitedly, "You don't want to be mad at me, because as much as that might've hurt seeing me with someone else, I know you trust me." That one word grounds me, because I know that he's right. Snapped necks, attempted murder, and a long list of nameless victims weren't enough to turn me away. I do trust him, with my life, with my heart, with everything. He even sweetens it by adding, "There's never been anyone else for me." My heart gives an embarrassing flutter, and I'm practically giddy, for about ten seconds. "I mean if all I wanted was to get laid, I had 8 really hot . . ." He notices my disapproving pout and self corrects. "I mean ugly, really homely women who came onto me, and I promptly turned them away."

His quick save does little to quell my temper. "Why couldn't I have fallen for some boring nice boy, one with dimples, and absolutely NO man-whore tendencies?"

He uses his own mischievous smirk, which is the bad boy equivalent of dimples. "Well that wouldn't have been near as interesting, now would it?" Damon challenges teasingly. "But since you're kind of stuck with me, why don't you tell me what you're really doing here," he asks with anticipation. The hopeful, little boy wonder is written across his face, and I just want to cuddle the fuck out of him.

"I came here because I love you," I state with simplistic clarity. "And life isn't the same without you in it," I confess vulnerably, opening myself up, with my heart practically laying at his feet.

Damon is entirely overwhelmed by my confession. I lead him over to the crate that I had previously been perched on when I was balling my eyes out. He keeps stuttering and barely managed any coherent thoughts. It is mostly a combination of, "What, why, when, how, what," over and over like a broken record. On one hand his reaction is pretty funny, but then the guilt prone part of me feels terrible. I can't shake the fear that his doubts are somehow my fault. I never explained to him how I felt, because our love is complicated. How do you tell someone that you fell in love with them in pieces? How do you explain only falling for the best parts of someone at first, and then learning to love the rest? I spent so long thinking that's not what love _should_ be. I should've known that I knew absolutely nothing about love when I was seventeen.

My philosophical life questions distract me from Damon's hilarious reaction to my confession. When I stop talking, he interrupts, "No, go on, I like where this is going. I'll just be down here." His face is paler than usual and he looks like he's about to be sick, or perhaps pass out.

"Are you sure you don't need smelling salts, or possibly a paper bag to breathe into?"

Never one to admit weakness, Damon laughs out loud and quickly snatches me until I end up on his lap. He even tickles me, until I finally say uncle and Damon releases me. "Now that is what I call payback for insulting my manliness and suggesting I was going to swoon like a southern belle in a corset. Whenever you feel the need to elaborate on your sudden love for me, I'll be waiting." He tries to hide the anxiety in his voice. Damon tries to pretend that this doesn't matter, and that it's all some big joke, but I know better.

"You kept me sane," I remind him, "kept me standing, and you kept me strong when everyone else either abandoned me or judged me. How could I not love you?" He has a flash of light, of hope, and then it dims again.

"Trust me plenty of people have managed," Damon scoffs, refusing to consciously acknowledge his own insecurities. Luckily growing up with Caroline has provided me with a wealth of experience in inferiority issues. If there's one thing Care's taught me, it's that blunt is always best.

"You're really messed up, you know that," I state with conviction. My odd turn around earns me Damon's undivided attention. He doesn't appear hurt by my summation, but I think he's wondering where my soft gentle nature vanished to. Damon spent nearly a century and a half hating himself, and after lifetimes of self-loathing, he started to believe that everyone else should hate him too.

I search for the comforting words that will make him feel better, and I'm reminded of an angry conversation we had, screaming at each other about what kind of person I expected him to be. It didn't occur to me until now, how much he had internalized what I'd said, how he took it as criticism, as an indictment on his character. It was just another in a long string of misunderstandings, because all I ever wanted him to be was himself, but I don't think Damon ever believed that.

"I was wrong," I admit repentantly, wanting to open up my mind to let him see, to let him understand just how much I loved him. "I never wanted to change you. All I wanted is for you to be the best version of yourself. But just in case you missed it, I love you," I reaffirm emphatically. "And not just the best parts, not just the parts that save me or love me back, but ALL of you. We both want to be loved, be accepted, and I found that in you. I like to think you found that in me too."

Damon isn't one for wavering, and when he reacts, it's instantaneous and intense. The unnecessary air rushes out of my lungs as Damon embraces me in a crushing hug. Most couples would seal the moment with a kiss, but this is the first time Damon ever hugged _me._ That fact alone is a huge step forward in his personal growth. He keeps opening and closing his eyes, like he expects to blink and for me to be gone, so I just clutch him tighter. I let him know that I'm _here_, and I'm not going anywhere.

His fingers feel so good running through my hair that I almost don't hear him when he speaks. "Almost two centuries and you're one of the two people who ever said those words to me and actually meant it. The last one was my mother, and I don't need to tell you how long ago that was."

I caress his shoulders as I bask in the glow of our reunion, and I feel a sense of intense pride at Damon actually sharing with me. "She would've liked you," Damon promises, regaining his 'happy' face, which I had only recently discovered for the first time. I reward his openness with a few passionate kisses. I can't get over the exhilaration I feel when he's touching me, claiming me, and somehow freeing me from the world's expectations.

Once I pull back from Damon's embrace, I swear he nearly purrs in sexual frustration. "Not to ruin the moment," I preface carefully.

"But you're totally going to ruin the moment," Damon finishes. His head starting to bang against the alley wall behind us.

"It's nothing bad," I promise reassuringly, "I just want to know what now?"

"That's what you're worried about?" Damon asks in teasing disbelief. "That's the easy part. Pick a life path. If you want to check in on our crack team, we can go find broody and blondie, I'll call them right now. If you want to compel ourselves into the nearest hotel room, that can certainly be arranged," Damon offers with a seductive round of eye sex. "Or if you want to find this cure everyone's so Hell bent on having, we can do that too." His last suggestion said with a bit of reluctant doubt finding its way into his voice.

"Well option one is pretty much an inevitability, but option two sounds like the most fun," I joke seductively.

"And option three," Damon pushes cautiously.

"Not interested," I reply with ease, causing a slack jawed response from Damon. I can practically count all of his teeth and even see his tonsils in the back of his throat.

"Run that by me again." Damon requests in a state of shock.

I take our happy carefree moment, and add far too much seriousness to it. But this needs to be said, I need to say the words aloud, to someone at least. Damon's the only one who will accept it, the only one who would understand. "I don't want the cure anymore Damon," I admit freely, feeling a weight lifted with my admission. My human life was over, but my vampire life, that was just beginning, and I wasn't willing to sacrifice that.

**As Always Please Read and Review**


	8. Chapter 8

**So, last episode . . . WTH was that? I both loved and hated it, pretty much the same. What I did get a kick out of was that my idea last chapter to find Elena by calling out for her like a lost puppy was actually used as a legitimate idea to find Jeremy. Obviously their problem was that Damon was not there to reiterate what a stupid plan that was. But I have resolved to move on from my issues with last episode, and so I shall, unless you want to leave me your thoughts in your review, and then I have an excuse to rant a whole lot more. On that note, I wanted to thank all the people who reviewed last chapter. While there may have been less of you, the ones I did hear from were definitely so encouraging and sweet, especially after my bout of writer's block.**

**FYI, this is the last chapter before the epilogue, so you have been warned.**

**As always a special thank you to my invaluable sounding board Cher Sue without whom this story wouldn't be near as interesting. So I hope you all enjoy.**

Eternity, in vampire terms that's hundreds of forced compulsions, thousands of blood bags, and for anyone with my similar taste in high end whiskey, it's a warehouse full of bourbon. And by some miracle, Elena wants to pass all that time with _me._ Must not freak out, or do something stupid. This is the time to channel the good guy, the romantic lead. I need to be Ryan freaking Gosling right now. Because if I keep staring at Elena like I've had a stroke and lost all ability to speak, she might break out the paper bags and smelling salts she was offering earlier. So before I pop the champagne and declare this my own personal national holiday, I need to regain some of my brain function and ask some questions. I am a fatalist after all, and this screams too good to be true.

"For the past year and a half, you've been the poster child for team Homo sapiens," I remind her glibly. "But now you're ready to embrace being young and hot forever and march in a fang pride parade? Forgive me for being a tad skeptical."

She doesn't act offended or even terribly surprised by my suspicions, because after only a year and a half I've apparently become predictable. I need to spend more time with the huddled masses, people who don't know the first damn thing about me, and can truly appreciate my carefully honed air of aloofness and mystery, as opposed to fiery brunettes who can read me like a children's book. Then I remember that I hate the huddled masses and nix that idea real quick.

Elena meanwhile has perfected her doe eyed innocence look. It's gotten so good that I swear she should copyright that face and sell the rights to the highest bidder. Those puppy dog eyes could be used in brainwashing experiments or coercion situations. I'm pretty sure that I'm about to offer her my house, my car, and my still beating heart if she keeps gazing at me like that. And then you add in the hopeful naïve optimism present in every syllable and I'm pretty much a goner.

Elena kneels in front of the crate that she graciously offered me in this dirty, smelly alley, and wraps her hands around mine, cradling them with undeserved tenderness. "In all the dreams of what my life was _supposed_ to be, I imagined getting married, having some kids, and living the Hallmark example of happiness and normality, but then my parents died, and everything changed. So yes, I did want the white picket fence, 2.5 kids, and a dog, but it doesn't matter anymore."

Her certainty is electric, magnetic, and addictive. I could take her explanation and run with it. I could simply ignore the plaguing thoughts and doubts in my head and just be happy, but if I did all that I wouldn't be me. So I'm almost afraid to ask the question, because nothing could be more perfect than losing myself in her. Unfortunately my realist tendencies don't allow me to indulge such foolish notions any longer. A man of my age has to be a pragmatist. So I ask, and if the answer isn't something that I like well emotional flagellation isn't exactly something new for me, so at least I'll be familiar with it.

"Tell me why," I beg in a less than manly quiver. And I don't win any manly points when I audibly gasp at the word, "You." Before I remember how to function like the literate rationalist that I am, Elena is peppering kisses on my jaw making all brain activity essentially a pipe dream. While some might take the time to quiz Elena on her recent life choices, I believe in going with what feels good, and the woman I love showering me in affection is my equivalent to heaven, so I lose all sense of reason. Somehow we end up on the concrete ground, Elena's ferociousness is being directed at my body, or more appropriately my shirt, which she has seen fit to rip off of me like it was a Band-Aid. One of her hands clutches my hair in a vice grip as her lower body straddles me teasingly, and I swear I see a triumphant smirk play across her lips, but I don't care anymore. We've both won this round, so who the Hell gives a damn.

My nirvana, my inner peace is ripped from me in a flash as a rush of movement pulls Elena from her delightful position practically riding my half clothed form. And to my extreme displeasure, I spot Blondie gripping Elena by the back of the neck like she was a little lion cub being carried in her mother's mouth. Sadly, my formerly mopey baby brother isn't far behind, wearing a look that appears to be a cross between embarrassment and amusement. But the brain cell deficient blonde holding Elena hasn't quite put two and two together as is evident by her screaming.

"This is what I was afraid of," Caroline screeches in alarm. "Ten minutes together and you're already trying to kill him." I try to muzzle my laughter at Blondie's gross misunderstanding. "I mean I know you think he's a man whore for skanking it up with Slutty McWhat's Her Face, and I'll admit hitting him is like my third favorite past time behind shopping and ordering people around, but that doesn't mean you won't feel bad about murdering him later."

Blondie's odd and heartfelt defense of my life is strangely endearing. As Caroline is in full on protective mode, Stefan slides next to her and whispers, "Um, Care, I don't think they were fighting." Stef's face is about three shades of crimson red, and once Blondie takes in my ripped shirt and the lip shaped marks Elena's lipstick has left all over my jaw and neck she releases Elena.

"Whoops," Blondie replies apologetically, brushing Elena off as she tries to ignore her humiliating mistake. "That could have happened to anybody," Caroline recovers smoothly. "And I'd say this is a good time for me and Stefan to be . . . anywhere else. So I'm thinking movie, are you in?" Caroline asks my little brother. Feeling a little spiteful after Blondie bested Jeremy for the title of worst cock blocker ever, I decide a little pay back is in order.

"You know if you wanted to ask Stefan out on a date, you don't need some lame excuse. I think he's already halfway to doodling your name in his notebook by now," I mock teasingly. Stefan is staring daggers at me, and if I ever thought he could take more than a fired up squirrel in a fight, I might be frightened.

Caroline seems at a loss for words, which must be the reigning accomplishment of my life that I have rendered her speechless. When she does find her way back to the English language instead of the strange monosyllables she's been mumbling for the past minute, Blondie is defensive and far too transparent. "See _this_," Caroline motions to my general form, "This is why we don't hang out more. So I'm going to go," Blondie explains as she tries to make a graceful retreat. "But not because you're right," she counters, "Because I am physically incapable of admitting that you are. I'm leaving on my own terms," Blondie claims triumphantly, as she tries to drag Stefan along like a puppy dog on a leash.

"Wait," Elena calls out after them. "I know the timing isn't ideal, what with Damon being shirtless, and you two going on your non-date date, but we need to have a group meeting."

It's at this point, that I pull out my own puppy dog stare. This pleading look has gotten me laid more times than is wise to mention in front of my new girlfriend. I whisper in my best seductive voice. "I thought WE were going to have a 'group meeting,' you know without these two yahoos, and preferably without clothes on, in a bed somewhere."

"Tempting," she smiles with her best eat your heart out smirk, "But we've got priorities to deal with first, so it will have to wait."

"Seriously," I whine in disappointment. "I've barely got more than a few tipsy words from you and now you want to lead a group pow wow? Have you forgotten that we haven't even covered how you broke the sire bond to begin with?"

Trying to reclaim some ground, Blondie tries her hand at being helpful, even if her sarcastic tone doesn't imply conciliation. "It's a whole depressing story," Caroline elaborates dramatically. "I mean her mascara was smeared. There was snot accumulation. It wasn't a pretty sight, oh yeah and something about her love for you being stronger than the sire bond. It was super sappy even for me."

I can feel Elena blushing beside me at her best friend's recount of events, and I want her right now in the worst possible way. "You missed me that much?" I pretend to mock, but secretly am invested in her answer.

Elena goes back to caressing my face, because she instinctively knows that we show our love best when we're touching each other. Because we're apparently in a Lifetime original movie, Elena only adds on to the sappiness, but for some reason I don't mind so much. "I didn't even know what I was missing," she admits with an undertone of unspoken despair. "But yeah it hurt like Hell."

Instead of squealing with delight like she did at Stefan and I's bonding session, Caroline and my brother make an eww face like they just smelt rancid garbage, which seeing as how we're in an alleyway that is a distinct possibility. "See this mushiness is why I was willing to spring for the movie," Care chimes in disdainfully, but with a slight smirk that makes me doubt how much she really means it.

Elena once again tries to keep my brother and his not-a-date from leaving. "We're stopping, I promise," she swears earnestly, which makes me pout a little that I won't be getting naked cuddle time at any point in the near future. "There's something that we ALL need to talk about."

This earns Elena concerned stares from everyone involved, because 'we need to talk' is notoriously a bad phrase, but from someone with as bad of luck as Elena Gilbert it must be catastrophic. But filling in for my role as the comic relief of the group, Caroline brings up such a girl question. "Not to interrupt your little leadership retreat, but I'm not spending another second in this dingy alley. These shoes cost more than that entire outfit that you're wearing Elena, so if we're going to talk, it's not going to be in a spot that all manner of animals and homeless people pee on."

Before I go off on Blondie's control freak tendencies, Elena silences me with a look. It's kind of like our form of telepathy as she warns me not to waste my breath as Caroline is on a mission. Blondie quickly steals her phone back and starts doing a Google search for nearby hotels. Once she finds one up to her impeccable standards, Caroline orders us to follow after her like sheep being herded by a very bossy shepherdess.

Once inside what I'm sure is the swankiest hotel in all of New Orleans, Caroline finds the manager and compels her way into the nicest conference room, because apparently we need 1000 square feet to talk in a room with 4 people. She even finds a giant white board and dry erase markers in case Elena finds herself in need of some visual aids.

Officially holding the floor and the all important marker, Elena resumes control once she wrestles it from Blondie. Having an uncharacteristic case of nerves, Elena shuffles around a bit as she gathers her thoughts. And when she can't find any words to kick off this mystery meeting, she writes one word up on her stolen whiteboard with a question mark after it. The word cure is written in big bold letters bringing the topic front and center.

"We never talked about it," Elena states awkwardly, unsure how to broach such a hot button issue.

"What about all that talk in the alley about you not wanting it?" I chime in perplexed and a little hurt that her grand declarations might have all been for show.

Elena tries to speak to me through her pleading eyes, using whatever telepathic connection we seem to share as she tries to reassure me. "That was how _I_ feel, but I never asked what the cure means for all of you."

"I might be inserting the unpopular opinion here," I preface cautiously, "But if you've already decided what you want, why are we opening this up to public debate?"

Elena takes the mantle with renewed confidence as she explains, "Because this isn't just about me." The room stays silent as we wait for our fearless pint sized leader to continue. "Jeremy might be the only blood that I have left, but that doesn't mean that the three of you aren't my family." I try not to dwell on the very unfamilial activities I have planned for us later tonight when she lumps me in that category. Sharing a brief eye sex gaze with Elena, she blushes and promptly moves on. "I've made the choice for myself. I don't _need_ it anymore, but I don't want to be selfish. For over a year we've spent our lives together, and I can't imagine my life any other way. Whether human or vampire, I don't want to lose any of you, so we have to decide this together. We should either take the cure as a group, or not at all."

"Live together, die alone," Caroline adds playfully as I roll my eyes at her pop culture reference. Like I'd really take advice from some ridiculous show about people repeatedly failing at getting home after a plane crash. It was basically Gilligan's Island without all the funny parts.

"So where do we start?" Stefan asks in his first real sentence since we left the alley.

Elena scribbles more on her white board and makes a simple chart, one side reserved for the pros, and the other for the cons. I feel like we're about to decide if someone should break up with their boyfriend, not the issue of ambiguous mortality. Sensing very little audience participation, Elena starts the ball rolling. "I don't want to be weak anymore," she declares as she writes one down in the pros section. "I need to be able to protect my family and my friends and not be relegated to the sidelines like a useless child."

Her desperation for purpose puts almost the entire room in misty eyed awe at how much she's grown, how much she honestly has changed since becoming a vampire. She's my badass warrior princess, and I don't care who knows it. I might need to get her a t-shirt made declaring her elevated status. But her confident spirit takes a bit of a hit as she moves to the con side of the board. She doesn't even voice her concerns out loud this time. She simply writes _I can never have children_, and those five words nearly rip my heart from my chest. Most maternal person on Earth never allowed to hold her own baby in her arms. There was something too cruel about that.

And in line with our depressing theme, Blondie grabs the marker and writes _we'll watch our loved ones grow old and die_. We share a moment of silence as we remember all the people that have passed out of our lives already. And never one to leave a sad stone unturned, baby bro has to add the elephant in the room to the cons list, _we could kill more people. _

Seriously, this was their list? I'm about to take my ring off and walk out into the noon day sun myself if they keep this up. So going off Stefan's suicide inducing note, I decide to steal the marker, and add something of my own to this little project, because my God do these people need to lighten up. _Caroline might actually make Stefan fun_ is all that I write under the pros column, because obviously she'd need the rest of eternity to work on him. I figure in about 200 years or so she'll have him in the league of moderately interesting, and I plan on living to see that achievement.

Once the ice is broken with a few laughs and grins, mostly at Stefan's expense, the pros list keeps growing. _I'm more confident as a vampire, I'll never wrinkle, _and _I can see the world_ were just a few of Caroline's additions. Stefan tries his hand at humor as he writes _another 100 years might be long enough to convince Damon that I'm incredibly witty_. After we all roll on the floor at that ridiculous idea, we're just left with a nearly filled up board and no idea what it really means. But the one argument that gets to all of us is when Elena writes across the bottom _an eternity with someone that I love is worth more than the happiest human lifetime_. Turns out that was the only reason that mattered against all the others.

We all share a look and I take the eraser and wipe our board clean. A list of reasons aren't going to matter one way or another. We know deep down what we really want, and another hour of debate isn't going to change that, so I replace the blank slate with only two words _Yes _& _No_. If we all check Yes, we stay vampires, and if we check No, we turn human again, together. For me the choice to remain an eternal stud capable of having hot vampire sex versus a boring human isn't a difficult decision to make. I place my check in the yes column in favor of the status quo. One by one we each have our turn, with Stefan being the last holdout. With the briefest glance, that the whole room notices, he gazes back at Caroline and places the last and unanimous vote for staying immortal.

We all sit frozen in our seats as we contemplate life's existential question of what's next. That is until I break up our session of awkward and weird with an attention grabbing clap. "Well as enlightening as this has been, Elena and I have better places to be, possibly more private places to be. And seeing as how this hotel doesn't seem the type to have last minute vacancies, I suggest we find my car post haste."

My humor is thoroughly lost on these people as Caroline and Stefan throw a marker at me, because apparently I was being gross. But my blunt honesty does gain me their begrudging cooperation, if for no other reason than they'd rather not stand in between Elena and I's makeup sex. It's a wise choice indeed, since I would absolutely plow over my own brother if he was standing between me and an available bed.

Once we get closer to the bar where I parked my beloved Camaro, Stefan voices a concern we all seem to have forgotten after Elena's dramatic exit and all the alleyway crying. "Do you think Charlotte will still be pissed that Elena snapped her neck and went psycho on your ex?"

Elena is caught between staring daggers at Stefan for making fun of her and staring them at me for the Charlotte debacle, so basically she just looks cross eyed. Blondie puts her arm around her murderous friend in an attempt to distract her. "Elena, while I did enjoy your little kung fu lesson with Ms.-Kissy-Face, I do think we need a game plan."

Stefan speaks up for the boring constituency as he proposes, "Why don't we just lie low, avoid her. In an hour, we'll be out of New Orleans, and she'll be far behind us."

In a coordinated effort, all three of us face palm at the same time. Caroline is just polite enough to do it in her head instead of in full view of Stefan like Elena and I. "What about compulsion?" Blondie offers, skipping right past my brother's stupid idea. "All we need is an original to compel the skank to forget all about you."

My brother digs himself into a deep funk as he scowls at the proposition. "Who'd you have in mind?" He asks the world's most loaded question. Elena buries her face in my chest as she struggles not to laugh when Caroline smacks Stefan upside the head for being stupid and jealous. Something tells me it isn't going to be Klaus that gets into Blondie's panties anytime soon. But since Blondie's love triangle drama causes more harm than good for my cause, I redirect the group's energies to more productive plans, i.e. mine.

"I'll just order her to forget me," I propose simply, "like I did with Elena. Assuming she doesn't have some deep everlasting love for me, it should work." However my jealous prone girlfriend clearly has some very strong opinions about me being face to face with the woman she threw against a wall to keep away from me. But before she can come up with her own backup plan, Elena is ripped from my arms _again_. This time the offender isn't being overzealously protective like Blondie. No, this threat is just enraged.

Charlotte stalks near me with an extra batch of creepiness that she reserves just for me. Meanwhile Elena is picking herself off the ground that she was unceremoniously thrown onto. And my vampire hearing picks up her grumpy mumbling. "My vote is we stake the bitch."

Now as much as I love a good girl fight, it's probably not great karma to let my girlfriend kill my ex because she's still so obsessed with me. It screams bad juju. So I extract Charlotte from Elena's direct path of righteous fury to do this little song and dance all over again. There's a little bit of crying, a few impassioned pleas, but she doesn't run after me as I walk away, so I figure that it must have worked.

Elena throws back one last evil glare as if to say if you touch him again I'll cut you like Zorro with fangs. I have to laugh at my fierce protector standing all of 5' 6'' and barring her vampire teeth in defense of my honor. She is so getting lucky tonight.

Thankfully for my sanity, my backup posse brought their own car, so I won't be subjected to the gagging noises from the back seat as I fully embrace my new boyfriend privileges. I briefly release my hold on Elena as she says the necessary goodbyes. While I make it a point not to eavesdrop on their girl talk, the giggling and the playful hitting doesn't leave much to the imagination, and I think if my luck holds up, I'll be having a _very_ good day, night, Hell good century.

As Stefan stands by the car staring at the girls like the gawky third wheel, I advance towards my brother and stand beside him as I lean against Blondie's vehicle. "So, Stefan," I begin inelegantly, unsure how to engage in the civil discourse my brother had suggested. "Not that it's any of my business, but you could do worse little brother," I advise while hinting towards Caroline. Talking about the weather has never been my thing, so sibling teasing will have to do.

Stefan wears a sheepish grin on his face as he becomes oddly fascinated with the laces on his shoes. "She technically still has a boyfriend," he reminds me moodily, with the typical teenage leave me alone glare.

"For now," I predict encouragingly as I pat his back in a gesture that for normal brothers would be equivalent to sobbing in each other's arms. "Things change," I state succinctly. "Plus between you and me, I think you could take him. Not to be a speciesist, but given how many hybrid hearts I've personally ripped out, we are clearly higher on the evolutionary pyramid." And in a shocking development, broody cracks a smile, while still maintaining his usual defeatist attitude.

"It's too soon," he rebuts weakly, trying to convince me more than himself.

And with a weird sensation of brotherly bonding filling my body, I'm tempted to actually share, a feeling I pray is fleeting and hopefully a rare occurrence. "Timing is everything," I tell him wisely. "Just when you least expect it, things start to fit, and its right. So maybe it's not right today, but now we've got endless amounts of time, so no excuses. It takes me a long time to vet someone as acceptable to be in our inner circle. I reluctantly accepted Forbes, so I'm sorry to say, but it basically means you've got to marry that girl. The paperwork alone to find you a new love interest just really isn't worth my time." Stefan laughs and punches me in the arm.

"Your concern for my happiness touches me in ways I can't express," he jokes sarcastically. Our back and forth banter actually feels like a step in the right direction, and I'm almost sorry to see him go as Blondie extricates herself from Elena's relentless hugging. That sentiment lasts right up until I see the naughty glint in Elena's eyes, and at that point I don't think I could remember who Stefan was, much less that I missed him.

Elena mouths seductively, "Hotel bed, now." And I certainly don't need to be told twice. My fingers move so rapidly on my phone, that it freezes three times before I find what I'm looking for. Finally I get ahold of a real classy place not even a mile from here, and I thank whatever God has blessed me with this moment. The check-in is a breeze seeing as how Elena becomes so impatient with the clerk that she simply compells him to hand over the key to the penthouse suite. While I might be feeling a little wonky about compulsion as of late, I have no problem with my girl expediting the process. I feel less like a dirty old man with her taking the reins.

And boy did Elena thrive on being in control. Once the elevator doors close, she shoves me against the nearest wall and resumes right where we left off in the alley, which is made even easier seeing as how my shirt is already pre-ripped. As she tries to press herself even further against the most arousing parts of my body, the bell dings signaling the arrival at our floor. Elena tugs me out by the loops of my jeans, barely pausing her oral exploration of my mouth and neck as I slide the keycard into the slot. After three infuriating tries, Elena snatches it from me, and calmly slides it in until the green dot lights up.

I kick the door closed as Elena tries to further strip me of all of my clothes. Standing in only my boxers, I take in the unfair disparity between Elena and I's states of undress. I seek to remedy that situation immediately and take a little control of my own and drag her top up over her head without missing a beat. The sight of more uncovered skin and her pushup bra drive me to the brink of insanity. I grip her back tighter as I mash our lips together in a dueling match of wills. Once she's had her fill of the kid stuff, she throws me in the middle of the bed. And I don't mind the loss of control one bit as Elena gets the cutest smile of satisfaction when she manhandles me.

Her straddling position on the bed makes it difficult to remove her pants myself, so I must resort to a little playful begging if I ever want to get this woman naked. "As much as I love how those jeans hug your ass," I compliment teasingly, "for what I have planned for us next, you really need to lose them." She undoes the button and pulls down the zipper as I help her remove the offending garment, and not so subtly cop a feel as the denim eases its way down past her feet. And I take special care in removing her lacy black underwear as I kiss my way down her stomach and I peel back the fabric first with my teeth and then accompanied by my slow moving hands. I want her to feel me touching every inch of her tonight, because she's mine and I'm hers, and I fully intend on taking advantage of our rare opportunity for some privacy.

Once she's bare before me, I flip her over so I can get a better angle. I resume my kisses starting with the skin on her inner thigh and traveling inward. Elena's so damn sensitive after having to hold herself back all day that she quickly bucks against me and tangles her fingers in my hair. The harder she pulls my raven haired locks, the more I torture her. When she pulls out a tiny clump of my hair, I stop altogether, plastering on my best evil smile just as I was about to push her over the edge. I'd make fun of her desperate need for friction if I wasn't hard as a rock myself and feeling just as needy as the writhing teenager lying below me.

As Elena tires of my payback for her forced hair removal, she flips me back over, breaking a spring in the bed from the force of her throw as she towers over me mercilessly. She's hungry, vivacious, and sexy as Hell. Her attack of my lips feels primal, animal, and when she rips my boxers off my body, there's nothing left to separate us. A little careful positioning and she's guiding herself down onto my length and the delicious heat of being inside of her makes me see stars from the ecstasy of it all. I might be going blind at this point. But luckily my eyesight holds up, because nothing compares to the sight of Elena riding me, unabashedly, just taking what she wants, free as a bird.

I can feel my release creeping up on me, and by the sounds of Elena's increasing moans hers isn't far behind. As lost as we are in the crazy sensation of joining together again, there's a moment, just before we fall over the cliff, when Elena just gazes at me, lovingly, adoringly, and she places one desperate kiss on my lips before we both topple over the edge.

Vampire stamina means this could easily be the first of many rounds tonight. We could test our endurance against every surface in this hotel, but oddly enough that's not what I want right now. I don't need crazy vampire sex every hour of every day, because right now I'm simply content as the woman that I love's legs wrap tenderly in mine. We don't need mystical cures or insane adventures to keep this romance alive, because it's the moments where Elena and I can just _be_ that truly matter. Acceptance, trust, and comfort, that's what Elena and I built over the past year. It wasn't about our insane chemistry or some bad boy fantasy she needed to live out. All this time, it was just _us._ And the good doctor was right, being happy, that was enough. That was enough for all eternity.

As Elena cuddles against me, I breathe her in, capturing her scent, her touch, and her love in any unused brain cell that's still operating. I want to remember this moment, not just because it was the first time someone has ever loved me, but because tonight was the first time that I ever accepted that anyone ever could.

**As Always Please Read and Review**


	9. Chapter 9

_**IMPORTANT NOTICE: There were some problems with the FF site when I uploaded ch. 8 where the chapter didn't show up or it was listed as not found. So before you read the epilogue, make sure that you've read the last chapter. **_

**It's been over 48 hours since the last episode and I'm still not completely over it. Jeremy's death was painful and awful and it broke my heart. Since the last time a major character died I wrote a eulogy, I thought Jeremy deserved one as well. **

_**He was a lost boy that grew into a man. Amidst a painful struggle for identity, for meaning, and for love, Jeremy Gilbert was a rock to his family, to his friends, even at times to his enemies. With his death Elena lost more than a brother, she lost her innocence, she lost her hope, and she lost her humanity. The only true justice in the world is that his sister should find some peace in this world, because it's the only thing he ever wanted, and ultimately it's what he died defending. May he rest in peace.**_

**I can't believe this story is over. I feel so sad and exhilarated at the same time. This has been a labor of love and I've appreciated each and every review, favorite, and follow. I'd like to thank my sounding board Cher Sue for her invaluable help from start to finish. And a thank you to my friend Sana for her advice on this chapter. I hope you all enjoy.**

_**75 Years Later:**_

In the 75 years since I last called Mystic Falls my home, mankind has made its fair share of impressive achievements. Scientists finally found a cure for cancer. An international coalition put a man on Mars. And one invention I've particularly enjoyed was the commercial production of jet packs. Vampire jumping might be exhilarating, but nothing beats the dream of every kid who ever watched the Jetsons. Yet somehow despite all these accomplishments, the human race still hasn't found a solution for truck stops persistently smelling like stale urine. Clearly a realignment of priorities is in order.

So as I wait for my uber hot wife to exit this armpit of civilization, I try to avoid stepping in anything sticky or likely to be covered in human feces, which means now might be an appropriate time to learn some beginner's levitation. And after far too long for someone who possesses vampire reflexes, Elena exits the bathroom and practically hops over to me in a ridiculous fiery red wig that should never be worn outside of a strip club off the highway. But Elena's excitement over her new get up makes it difficult to argue with her. "Sooo," she asks excitedly, "What do you think? I was going for the feisty look with a mix of grownup sophistication, but if you don't like it, I have a blonde one in my bag."

I quirk my eyebrows in confusion as Elena stares back at me expectedly, eagerly awaiting my approval. "Either we're on the lam, or you entered us into witness protection without clearing it with me," I reply flippantly. A joke which I thought was quite witty isn't received quite as well by my better half.

Her initial reaction is annoyance, which is usually her response to 50% of the things that I say. But this phase passes and is followed quickly by the appearance of one of Elena's six smiles that I've learned over the years. This particular one is the 'why do I put up with you' smirk that oddly enough is one of my favorites, maybe because as many times as she smacks me or rolls her eyes at my behavior, she never _stops_ putting up with me. Three quarters of a century together and we still get mistaken for newlyweds, either because Elena looks like delicious jailbait, or because we have a fairly lax policy on public groping.

So when I catch her predictable eye roll, I can't help feeling like an unruly little boy, and I have yet to find fault with Elena's methods in 'punishing' me. Since my wife has proven incapable of staying mad at me while I'm staring at her like this, I know the irritation is already melting away. And her little engine that could attitude is what replaces it.

"I need a disguise," she argues persistently. "75 years isn't long enough for us not to be recognized." Elena's screeches as she reaches a pitch that only dogs can hear. Her paranoia is kind of cute in a hot Russian spy sort of way, and somehow the wig is kind of working for Elena right now, in a way that makes me wish we weren't 40 miles from the nearest available bed. But unfortunately even my low standards for public sex make this rest stop unsuitable, so I poke holes in Elena's argument, because bickering is our form of tantalizing foreplay.

"Seeing as how most of the residents old enough to remember us will be in their 80s and 90s, I think they'll be more concerned with how much it sucks pooping in a diaper than worrying about exposing us." I even toss out a carefree smirk to calm little Miss Worry Wart's active imagination. Yet despite my flawless logic, Elena is still in a contrary sort of mood, that or she's just trying to ensure our makeup sex is even hotter.

"Well as the voice of caution between us I'm still wearing the wig, so pick one," she orders as she holds the blonde and red wig out for my inspection. With a few simple words, I feel like I'm walking through a field of land mines. Now I know how other men feel when they're asked whether their wives' butts look fat in a pair of jeans. Telling a woman how you'd prefer she look can only end badly. It's a trick question, I'm sure of it. And if I answer incorrectly, I might as well dress in black and wear a white collar, because I'll be as abstinent as a Catholic Priest on Sunday.

So because I value the frequency of my explosive sex life, I turn up the charm to almost dangerous levels. I've considered wearing a warning label, because I have caused inexplicable bouts of fainting before, something about my hip thrusts during dancing. I'm tempted to offer Elena some smelling salts as I saunter towards her, using all my tricks, the swagger, the eye thing, and my magic hands that cup her cheek with my right and draw circles on her back with my left. "Frankly, I prefer _your_ particular shade of brown," I compliment shamelessly as I delicately run my fingers through her natural auburn locks.

With the intended effect, Elena blushes profusely, like a shy school girl. Given her remarkable skill in taking charge in the bedroom, I always find it remarkable that Elena can, after all these years, still remind me of an innocent four year old. I suppose the contrast is what makes her eternally interesting, or eternally infuriating, probably both. But for today at least, we've struck a playful balance, and I know that I'm off the hook when she whispers in my ear. "Nice save." I relax against her, and I can practically feel her phone vibrating as I hold her to my chest.

"Caroline," she announces in response to my questioning stare. "Her and Stefan should be here within the hour."

At the sound of the less interesting part of our little foursome, I release a heavy groan. "Remind me again why we invited them in the first place." I push my bottom lip out in what I assume is a devilishly sexy pout. I've been told it resembles a cross between the devil and a cute puppy. But apparently my charms are waning in my old age, because Elena is glaring at me with a face that wordlessly tells me to stop acting like a toddler.

"He's your brother for one, she's my best friend, and this is their home too," Elena lists off the reasons in her authoritative don't mess with me tone. I throw my hands up in surrender before reminding her of the debacle in Egypt.

"Well excuse me for not wanting a replay of finding Broody and Blondie sexing it up in the middle of the ancient pyramids. I think our conservative tour guide received more of an anatomy lesson from their hidden romp than he probably gets from his wife."

Elena snickers at my justifiable indignation, and just a little at my unspoken hypocrisy. I might have left out how Caroline caught Elena and I going at it in the bathroom at the Louvre. This is why vampires don't nest together; too many ramped up hormones to maintain any sense of privacy. Elena gazes at me as she circles her hands behind my neck, and we share in a moment of silent conversation. It's a tremendous skill we've perfected over the years, talking without words. Once or twice it even got us out of a close scrape or two. Being able to communicate silently is a deadly weapon when someone is chasing you or trying to torture you. It would have been nice if Elena's undead status lessened any of the threats against us, but the years have done nothing to reduce Elena's magnetic pull to imminent danger. Our little skill was just a way of evening out the curve.

So after all these years, she doesn't have to say it. Elena doesn't have to pester me, pull the words out as I kick and scream in resistance. Instead all she does is gaze at me with a knowing smile, and in a few brief seconds, she's made her point. I actually miss my pain in the ass little brother, and it's impossible to hide it from her.

It's been six months since the girls disagreed over where to start their next adventure. And since voting was made impossible by the fact that we were each sleeping with the lovely women vying for our vote in their favor, we agreed to embark on our own world travels for a while. The compromise was fine by me, because it hadn't been just the two of us since our honeymoon, which was roughly six decades ago, so privacy sounded like a little slice of heaven. But somehow, entirely without my consent, I actually came to miss Blondie's dramatic tirades and Stefan's pathetic attempts at being funny. I have to give credit for Care's miraculous attempts to revitalize Stefan's long lost sense of humor. Occasionally his jokes don't _completely_ suck.

Not that I have any intention of telling Stef any of this. I'll probably just slug him in the shoulder and toss him a bottle of his favorite hair gel, or as I like to call it, our version of I love you. Just as I'm getting lost in my thoughts of brotherly bonding, Elena pulls me out of it with a bit of loving mockery.

"So are you ready to head back to the boardinghouse? I know you're just dying to bust out the duster and go to town. We can buy you your own set of yellow dishwashing gloves if you want." She's teasing me, but I'd be lying if I said that didn't sound like exactly what I was planning on anyway, minus the yellow gloves, and possibly minus all of Elena's clothes.

Nothing would make me happier than to restore the boardinghouse to its former glory and enjoy a bit of homecoming sex to really sweeten the deal, but in all the back and forth we were forgetting what _really_ brought us home. "It can wait," I state calmly, catching her eyes before they try and break away. "We have someplace we need to be."

Elena's eyes fill with unshed tears and her very presence is just killing me today, because I can't bear to see her cry. The crack I hear in her voice is enough to send me into a childlike fit of bawling, but I maintain my expressionless stoicism for Elena's sake. "Please," she begs in despair. "Can't it wait just a bit longer?" Her innocent pleas are enough to completely unravel me, twist my insides like a pretzel until I'm begging for mercy, but denial is Elena's greatest weakness. And if she doesn't let me indulge in the lesser angels of _my_ nature, I can't let her do it either.

So I wrap my arms around her, so she can pretend for just a minute like it'll all be okay, and I speak softly as she rest her head against my chest. "It's time," I echo, hating the idea as much as she does. Because we both know what the past month's been about. We've been filling the time with laughter and sex, and it's been a blast, but beneath it all was avoidance. The second Elena received that phone call and broke down in my arms, I knew it was time for us to come home, and say goodbye.

* * *

**Elena's POV**

Damon's two words are all it takes for me to nearly crumble. My legs feel like jiggling Jell-O, and my resolve dwindles before I take a single step. Somehow I manage to nod my head weakly, and in a numb haze, Damon whisks me off down the road, not stopping to ask me stupid questions like if I'm alright. He's done an incredible job taking my mind off things, letting me have fun and not think for a while. But Damon never lets me hide from my problems for long. Five minutes, it's all he ever gives me before the world comes rushing back.

And the world hands me a body blow as Damon's car glides past the sign for Mystic Falls' cemetery. I've come to hate that sign, for what it represents, for all the people that I've had to lay to rest here. With a consuming sense of dread, I unbuckle my seat belt and leave the car behind. My feet reluctantly carry me the rest of the way until I find myself standing in front of a newly carved tombstone. The ground is still covered with freshly shoveled dirt, and grass hasn't gotten the chance to grow over the spot where my brother was laid to rest. I drag my fingers over the carefully chosen words meant to immortalize my last connection to my old life. _A brother, a friend, a husband, and a father: loved by all._

The sentiment seemed too plain, too pedestrian to explain all that Jeremy was, all that he meant to everyone who knew him. If Bonnie had outlived him, she would've written something better, something more poetic, but my former best friend passed not even three months before Jer died. When his oldest daughter broke the news, I was hysterical. I couldn't understand how this could happen, how my brother could truly be gone. His little girl explained that her dad was simply too heart sick to go on. In what was one of maybe three times I had ever spoken to the now elderly Miranda, and I spent the majority of the conversation sobbing into the phone. Trying to console me, she explained that 91 years old was too long to keep fighting when the love of your life was gone. As Damon stood supportively in the distance, I didn't need any further explanation to understand what she meant. What was life without the people you loved to share it with?

And as much as I envied Jer for being reunited with our parents, our Aunt Jenna, and our friends, I couldn't help wishing that he had held on just a bit longer, a few more years, then I could let him go. But even now I knew it never would have been enough. Jer was my brother, and eternity couldn't stretch long enough to make living without him any easier. It was silly that I missed our weekly talks, and the visits that were too few and far between. I missed most birthdays and Christmases. I've never even met his grandkids or great grandkids, but as I kept reminding myself, that's the way it had to be. In 75 years, I'd only crossed the town lines a couple dozen times, trying so hard to keep my distance, to give Jeremy a better life. A hunter with a vampire for a sister was a terrible burden, and I didn't want him to hate himself for his uncontrollable desire to hurt me. So I left, left town, left him, left it all behind, because he deserved a full and happy human life, and he'd never have that with me. While I couldn't always be there for him, my presence was never far away. I checked in every week, kept the supernatural elements at bay, and ensured that my little brother was safe. That one thing I could do for him.

Once we arrived back from New Orleans all those years ago, we desiccated Klaus. All talk of the cure died with him, and Elijah promised not to free Klaus for a few centuries at least, long enough to teach him those manners his brother kept hoping for. After Rebekah made peace with Elijah, they both fled the area to somewhere that held less painful memories. When I packed up and caught the first plane outside the country, the gang followed after me. Damon was essentially a given, because I knew he'd follow me wherever I went, but I was surprised that Stefan wasn't far behind, chasing his brother just like Damon was chasing me. And since Caroline claimed her 'friend' would be lost without her, she tagged along as well. And for close to a century, we've operated as a highly dysfunctional surrogate family, while never forgetting the people we'd left behind.

Even if we were hundreds of miles away, one phone call and all of us would have come rushing back. As much trouble might have plagued our peculiar family foursome, I made sure none of it touched Mystic Falls. More than once Damon and I had to run some supernatural interference, but for 75 years, we kept our town safe, and that I'm more proud of than anything. But as I'm sitting criss cross in front of the memorial to a brother whose life I was largely absent from, I can't stop the wave of regret from crushing me. I say a tearful I'm sorry for every milestone, for every moment that I missed out on by being the one thing he was conditioned to despise. But I swallow my lump forming in my throat, because I owe my brother one last goodbye, the one we never got to have. Farewells are a luxury in this town that we can seldom afford, but I have to give the little speech I planned in my head, not because Jeremy needs to hear it, but because _I_ need to say it.

When I speak, I sound braver than I was expecting, but still more like a broken child than a 93 year old immortal. But I suck it up, summon my strength, and imagine my baby brother looking just how I remember him best at 16 years old.

"I never apologized," I state guiltily to the cold, unforgiving headstone. "Before I left, I never told you how sorry I was that I chose to stay like this." A lifetime's worth of baggage is weighing on my every word. "You must know. I need you to know, everything I did, I did for _you._ Desiccating Klaus, keeping renegade vampires away, even exiling myself from this town, it was all for you. Protecting you was the one sense of purpose I had outside of living for myself. And I promise you, I swear on your memory, I'll protect your family too." My solemn vow is all I can offer my brother in consolation for a lifetime of absence, but around here you often have to take whatever you could get.

With more than a few sniffles and tears under my belt, I place two of my fingers to my lips and then place a kiss on the headstone. As I lift myself up off the ground, Damon makes his presence known once more. He walks over to the grave and admits in a strangled whisper, "You _were_ a badass baby Gilbert, but don't tell any of your ghost friends. Even in the afterlife, I have a reputation to maintain."

I smile for the first time since we arrived, and I reminisce about that lost summer, those few precious months when Alaric, Jeremy, Damon, and I were our own little family holding each other together with sheer will and scotch tape. I don't need to ask where our next stop will be. Damon waited as I said goodbye to my brother, and I knew he needed a few minutes with the man that had become one of his. I steer clear of the scene. There are too many graves left to visit, and Damon isn't one to let his bromancey feelings out when he has an audience. But after making the rounds to the Gilbert family plots, I catch the tail end of Damon's speech. All I can make out is an, "I'll miss you buddy." And without looking back, he leaves behind the pricey bourbon he bought in our swing through Kentucky and walks away. Just behind the nearest tree I'm waiting for him, arms outstretched as I reach for a hug. As Damon's lips gently touch the top of my head, I feel droplet of rain starting to drench my hair. But for some reason, Damon can't stop smiling. It's as if there's some great inside joke that I'm not a part of.

"Typical," he states serenely, "I finally say something nice to Ric after all these years and he pays me back by causing a downpour on my new leather jacket."

His childlike smile is contagious and I'm struck by the thought that one of the most painful and heart wrenching days of my life can end with laughter and joy. While I personally always enjoyed staying outside in the rain, Damon can be a bit particular about his clothes, and if I have to listen to one more speech about the damaging effect water can have on leather, I might just burn the jacket myself. Not that it would do much good, since I think he regularly buys a new one every five years, but the satisfaction of it would be cathartic.

As I lose myself in my pyromaniac ways, Damon is dragging me in the direction of dry shelter in his car. After finding reprieve from the storm, I reach into my bag and dig out a fresh dress to slip on. My lecherous husband doesn't take his eyes off me as I strip unabashedly in the passenger's seat, and I go extra slow just to torture him. The strip tease apparently had a rather strong reaction if Damon's constant shifting in his seat is any indication. We travel halfway through town as I watch Damon slowly bend the metal of the steering column and try desperately not to laugh.

A few frustrated glares are enough to send me into a fit of giggles. Luckily the rain lets up the further we drive, so I don't have to worry about him hitting some poor pedestrian as Damon gives me the evil eye. And just when I have him right where I want him, the car comes to a sudden stop. I jerk forward in the seat and notice the triumphant smirk on Damon's face as he revels in this tiny bit of payback. Looking around all I see is a park where the town square used to be. In the middle is a giant statue, the type they usually reserve for Presidents and pioneers. But as I squint to look closer, Damon is yanking me along like he's a six year old and we're missing a ride at Disney World.

As we're standing in front of the monument, Damon breaks out in a rare, non-sarcastic smile, the kind he saves for when no one else is watching. Unclear why a bit of bronze and stone can make Damon so ecstatic; I read the inscription engraved on the stone. _This statue is a tribute to the life and great works of Freddie Winters, a beloved citizen and selfless guide to those in need._ While Damon is pleasantly beaming at the giant rock, I am racking my brain trying to remember why that name sounds so familiar.

Then a memory comes back from my 16th birthday that was hosted at the Grille. I remember the sad, lonely drunk that puked on my shoes as my dad tried to call him a cab. No way could it be the same guy. "Tell me they didn't erect a statue to the town boozer?" I ask my husband in a huff.

Damon looks almost offended. "This boozer is probably the reason that we're together right now," he declares indignantly. "Freddie got me to open up, express myself, and I recall him calling me an idiot a lot."

I smile back at the statue a little more impressed than I was expecting. Anyone that got Damon to talk about his feelings was either sleeping with him or a miracle worker, and for the sake of our marriage, I'm hoping for the latter. "So what did you do, compel someone to put up this statue to a guy you talked to in a bar?"

He shrugs his shoulders. "Not that I'm above that, but no, he got the adoration of the town folk all on his own. Turns out helping me was downright inspirational for old Freddie. It made him turn his life around. He even wanted to go back into practicing Psychiatry, so with some 'persuasion' of the review board, I convinced them to give Freddie back his license."

As I eye Damon skeptically, I ask, "But why build a monument to a random doctor?"

He seems amused by this and points toward the bottom of the statue that contained a smaller inscription. _Leader of Mystic Falls Sobriety Council_. "As you may know, this town has a history of alcohol abuse," Damon brings up lightly. "Once Freddie got his own affairs in order, he started up his own AA group and got most of the alchies in this town to give up liquor. Oddly enough there was a sharp drop in town events due to lack of interest."

I can't stop giggling at the absurdity that Damon indirectly was responsible for the sobering up of Mystic Falls. "Well I suppose I owe Freddie a debt of gratitude," I concede graciously. "And as a token of my good will, I intend to compel the groundskeeper to shine this monument once a day. That way people can come and admire the great work that Dr. Winters did, and hopefully not be pointing and laughing at the alarming amount of bird poop on his head."

"Ever the humanitarian," Damon teases cockily. "But right now, I say we skip all this sightseeing and make a quick beeline for home. Last I checked it's still entirely empty, hopefully for another couple hours." His mischievous grin makes my answer a no brainer, because Damon doesn't exactly do subtle, so I can practically paint a picture of all the dirty things going through his mind right now, and I definitely want in.

After a bit of frenzied driving, and a few laws broken, we end up back at the boardinghouse. Miraculously it is just as we left it, frozen in time, likely due to all the humans that Damon's hired to watch over it throughout all these years, but for the first time it feels like coming home. But Damon's relentless pursuit of touching all parts of my body almost at the same time makes it impossible for me to think of anything else. Instead of fishing in his pocket for the key, he breaks the damn lock without a second thought.

We aren't more than ten steps inside before I drag him by his wet jacket to the nearest soft surface. I jump right in as hover over Damon in his wet clothes and smile wickedly, trying to figure out which part of his body to attack first. Feeling in a romantic mood, I start off with a sweet and tender kiss that easily grows into something more heated when I start running my nails down his muscular arms. Scratch marks start to form and Damon releases a guttural moan that only excites me more. I press harder against him, tear his clothes faster, and lose all rational thought after his chest is bare before me. I lean in close to the side of his neck where I can feel his immortal blood pumping through his veins. Each beat entices me further until I'm nipping at Damon's neck and he's sighing so loudly the neighbors three blocks over might lodge a noise complaint. I suck deeper letting the delightful taste coat my tongue and glide euphorically down my throat.

Entirely without restraint or cognitive thought, I don't register the importance of the loud thud coming from the corridor, or the sounds of ripping fabric, or even jostle of several shopping bags being dumped on the floor. No, it's Damon that has to halt my wandering hands just as this homecoming sex is about to get interesting. I lodge a dramatic protest at the end of our amorous activities until Damon points to the entry way and mouths we have company. Standing uncomfortably next to my best friend is Stefan, who clearly isn't aware he's wearing more of Caroline's lipstick than she is at the moment. His face is practically clown painting with all that makeup smeared on it. These embarrassing moments were once a weekly occurrence when we were all together, so it seems fitting that our homecoming should start exactly like this. It's as if a bit of normal has reentered our lives. So instead of wallow in awkwardness, I embrace my old friends and help Caroline with her bags.

"Done a little shopping I see," I state teasingly, searching for something else to talk about, beside the sex show they both walked in on. Care takes the cue simply enough, and doesn't even comment on why Damon refuses to move from the couch and instead keeps taking deep calming breaths.

"Someone has to support the local economy," Caroline rationalizes proudly. "And you know how hot and bothered I get when I hear the words half off sale."

I'm not sure whether my snickering is caused by my best friend's extreme openness about her sex life or by the blushing going on next to her. How Stefan can remain bashful after going out with Caroline for so many decades I'll never know. Luckily Care takes pity on him and breaks out the surprise portion of her shopping extravaganza, about a half dozen bottles of expensive wine straight from the south of France. We each take a bottle and settle into the living room as we celebrate our homecoming, with far more clothes than I think any of us were counting on wearing this evening.

Halfway through our first bottles, we all start to get a little nostalgic. We tell stories, reminisce, and remember all the interesting people that we've met, all the parties that we've crashed, and the historical landmarks whose sanctity we've defiled since becoming vampires. Damon talks of how he already misses the beaches of Saint-Tropez or the nightlife in Amsterdam. Caroline by no one's surprise gushes over her great love affair with Paris with its fine cuisine, high fashion, and love of culture. While Stefan and I get into an argument about which country had the richest history. I'm partial to the Roman ruins in Italy but Stefan drunkenly advocates for the samurai artifacts in Japan as the pinnacle of world travels.

At some point Caroline gets past the point of being tipsy and blurts out, "Why the Hell did we come back here?" I'm sure it was meant as an offhanded comment, but it instantly becomes a serious debate. She brings forward the one question we've all asked ourselves at least once in the month prior to arriving back in Virginia. "I mean we're hot, immortal, and loaded, so why don't we spend the next thousand years traipsing across Europe and Asia, trek through the Himalayas, or climb Mt. Everest?"

The room grows deathly quiet for a moment as the possibility hangs in the air, the doubt. But it's Stefan who finally breaks the silence with a bit of sound wisdom that actually makes him sound as old as he is. "This is our home," he declares with conviction. "We've loved here, we've lost here, and everyone we love is buried here. Nearly a century of letting off steam is great and more fun than I've ever had, but we keep coming back for a reason. It's our connection to the people we lost, the memories we made, and the humanity that grounds us."

Stefan's speech touches us all, and his moving moment would have seemed much more profound if not followed by a loud belch and an immediate excuse me. Then of course we all take turns laughing at him and making jokes about how a vampire over two centuries old can't hold his liquor. There isn't any talk of leaving after that, not even from Caroline. Her only stipulation is that we all skip the whole high school experience, since this isn't Twilight and she has no desire to start a graduation cap collection.

We all start throwing out ideas with what we'll do with ourselves now that we have to fit into small town society. I suggest Caroline start a small business in party planning and remind this Mystic Falls how to have a good time again. I could be her assistant, assuming I could stomach being her minion for more than five minutes at a time. Damon could run for sheriff, seeing as how he was better at protecting this town than any of the elected officials. And Damon jokingly proposed that Stefan could work at the animal shelter as penance for his decades of killing Bambi's mother.

Hours passed effortlessly and by the time we ran out of wine to drink, the sun is coming up. Caroline and I are giving the boys the sex eye, and just before we excuse ourselves to a room with more privacy there is a firm knock at the door. No one had lived on these grounds for 75 years, and suddenly we have visitors. This screamed trap, so Damon carefully makes his way towards the offending sound as the rest of us follow right behind, tense in a battle stance. As Damon throws open the door, a civil and genial reception greets us outside. Elijah Mikaelson stands graciously on the Salvatore stoop looking just as dapper and smooth as ever. And to everyone's dismay, he has my sneaky bitch of a doppelganger in tow. This can only end in catastrophe.

Extending an olive branch, Stefan asks our guests to come inside while the rest of us considered vervaining Stefan just for being so reckless. Katherine is not to be trusted, but at least with Elijah there as a buffer, I am pretty sure she isn't here to kill us all. But just to be safe, I keep a firm grip on the stake that Damon hands me sneakily behind my back.

Ever the leader, Damon is the first to break the ice. "Not that we don't enjoy these little visits once a century, but what are the two of you doing here?"

Elijah replies, unfazed by the distrust in Damon's tone. "See here I was expecting a civil gathering, seeing as how I've kept my word all these years. My brother is still entombed to keep you all safe. A please and thank you now and then wouldn't kill you."

Damon scoffs at the suggestion. "Maybe if the two of you didn't have such an impressive track record of screwing us over, I'd have offered you some tea and crackers. But seeing as how we're not besties, why don't you tell me what you want."

Elijah smiles slyly at Damon as they both play some complex game of alpha male posturing that resembles a game of chess I can't possibly understand. Once Elijah tires of their pointless game, he clears his throat and announces, "It is my job as the newly elected mayor of Mystic Falls to check in on all new residents. We wouldn't want a seedy crowd to infiltrate our town," Elijah jests, quite pleased with himself and his sense of humor.

All of us stare wide eyed at the revelation that the typically hereditary position of town mayor went Elijah Mikaelson. "Well that what's she doing here?" Damon asks with a harsh tone and a distrusting nature. Katherine had burned us all before, and Damon is nothing if not protective.

Since Katherine isn't one to let others speak for her, she replies with her best mean girl attitude. "Every politician needs a hot wife." At that point, our jaws drop straight to the floor. Elijah, moral compass of the original family, has taken up and married the she-bitch herself. I think I need to lie down, or faint, conceivably both at the same time.

Damon swoops in and places both hands on my shoulders, bracing myself against him. He directs the conversation back to Elijah. "Mazel tov on your nuptials. I'm sure you'll make the world's creepiest couple together. And as a bit of friendly advice, I recommend you sleep with a sharpened stake under your pillow every night, but what does this have to do with us?"

Elijah's face darkens and for a second even Katherine looks frightened. "There's evil coming here, a darkness unlike any I've ever faced. And if my sources are correct, we can't stop it without your help." The original vampire and Katherine Pierce of all people appear humbled in our presence. I'm not sure whether to feel smug and superior at the turning of the tables or scared shitless.

Damon's the only one who stands eerily calm in the face of all of this. I toss him a confused stare as I try to figure out where his head is at. With his typical relaxed nature he explains, "All my brother's talk about love and life and death it was touching. I think they'll make a lifetime movie about it, but mysterious new danger, dubious allies, and my family at my side, now it feels like I'm home. So let's get to work."

**As Always Please Read and Review**


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